The Twins transfer alongside a red-dust path in moonless darkish no sky mild, no stars, solely the canyon partitions rising in silhouette. Round a bend forward, a constructing blazes with heat amber mild, however they’ll’t see the door but. What reaches them first is the bass: a low, regular thump touring by means of stone and floor, felt in the ribs earlier than heard in the air. Voices ripple above it, vague, perhaps music, perhaps laughter. The Twins’ figures are caught mid-stride, faces turned towards the vibration. They’re not following the glow. They’re following the bass.
