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DANIEL WHEATLEY

it to Cedwick, who immediately handed it o to Zanna without
so much as a look. It weighed absolutely nothing, and Zanna
would have sworn she was just cupping air, were it not for the
thin black lines that made up its outline. She gave it a gentle toss
from hand to hand, like Dr. Fitzie had, and then passed it on.
“Let’s take some time to try this out ourselves, shall we?”
Dr. Fitzie said. “Group up in your little triangles. Start with a
dot and smear it into a cube. If you’re adventurous, maybe try
your hand at some dierent forms! Not everything in the world
is a boring old cube, you know. Use your imagination!”
e murmur of work lled the air as the students turned
to their groups. Zanna reached out and touched the air, just as
Dr. Fitzie had done, but nothing happened. No dot appeared.
“How’d she do that?” Beatrice asked, apparently having
the same problem. e girl looked at her nger as if it had run
out of ink.
“Like this.”
Cedwick held a cube just like Dr. Fitzie’s and a bored expres-
sion on his face. He balanced it on a corner and gave it a spin.
“It’s painfully simple. Just hold the concept in your mind. Here—”
“I can do it myself,” Zanna snapped before he could reach
over to her. She hunched down and focused on Dr. Fitzie’s words.
e dimensionless point at the end of her nger becoming a
line. e line becoming a square. e square becoming a cube.
“Oh!” Beatrice’s nger left a mark on the air, and she jumped
a little in surprise. “I did it!”
“Keep holding on to it,” Cedwick said, deftly making a cou-
ple of spheres. Zanna felt his gaze icker over to her. “How are
you doing?”
Her jaw clenched. “You’re breaking my concentration.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Cedwick said. “Let me know when you want
help.”

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