“Frak!” Simon shouted. His voice echoed off his rocks. He sat down on one and put his head in his hands.

He’d screwed up. A few minutes on the Road and he’d already screwed up. If only he could get a do-over.

He rolled a pebble around with a sneaker tip, and repeated the thought in his head. A do-over. He stopped pushing the pebble and stared at it.

That would never work. It was the worst idea he’d ever had.

What, compared to his other ideas today?

Set a thief to catch a thief, said the voice in back of his head.

“Okay, mate,” he said aloud to himself in a terrible faux-Brit voice, “that would be a bleedin’ paradox.”

The little voice replied, So?

He didn’t have a comeback to that.

“You’re frakkin’ crazy,” he said, picking up the pebble. He balanced it on a fingertip, then pulled his hand away. The pebble stayed in the air. Simon inhaled deeply, held his breath and mingled it with his pneuma...

And exhaled pure magic on the world within the world within the world.