Imago ran west with the wolves, upriver, farther than any man had been able to row.

The river became white water; white water split to a thousand streams. Imago and his pack followed the largest each time until they came to a spring as clear as grief, and beyond it waited the end of the world.

Imago sniffed nervously, then peered at the border. It took him some time to remember his voice.

“Is it,” he cleared his throat, “a long way to fall?”

“Only if you look down,” said the end of the world, and drew him over the edge.