Weeks went by. Sometimes the necromerger met him again beneath different roofs. Sometimes she brought other trades: a scrap of voice sewn back into a lullaby, a footprint put back into the dust. Her price always varied; once she asked for a memory of color and took it like a painter who needed blue for the sky. Once she asked for a name and stitched it into the lining of a coat. Luckypatcher paid because he believed giving things back was a service worth the decline of a few small joys.