Hating the sun, the sand, the sea, Storm’s clouds coalesce instead in the caverns beneath the mountains. Storm thinks the stalagmites look like dinosaur dentures & the stalactites like ancient icicles, still dripping water droplets into pools & puddles, echoing through chamber after chamber. Storm pets the bats, studies the blind fish & newts & rats—everything milky-eyed, washed out, ears oversized. Storm might move here, would love to call this place home. But no, no, Storm would miss me, would miss being fully known.

On the moon, Storm hears the near-silent static of vibrating celestial bodies. Storm feels the ash-like lunar soil & arid atmosphere. Storm tastes the gun-powder dust, sucks in the burnt-charcoal smell. Before now, the moon had never experienced weather—only clear views of earth’s blue-and-green mountain-pocked skin & Mars’s ruddy glow on the horizon. Storm decides to put on a show—releases ravaging rain, deafening thunder, sending superbolts across the surface of the sphere. The winds whipping wilder & wilder until Storm swears it hears the moon applaud, a sound like the river's roar after a dusty drought.