We sold rot in the marketplace below ground, rot which was turned into the richest loam in the canopies of the overcity. With that we bought supplies of a kind we couldn’t find where we came from, and then turned – almost absurdly – back into the dark. She led us deeply, past the groam zombs and the ratchetforms, past the wakes and muddy waters, where something drove us downward, downward to find ourselves, down to find what was left of us beneath it, my feigned heart bloated; Worming Lows.