Lefty was sorting shells by ridge depth when the knock came. She looked up from her workbench, claws pausing over a fragment that showed the telltale wear patterns of the old times. The sculptures she built from these discards were the only record left of what her people had been before everything changed. Her old teacher stood in the doorway, mandibles clicking in distress. In one claw she clutched a slim volume bound in faded cloth, its edges worn smooth from handling. Lefty recognized it instantly — the reference guide with hand-drawn ridge patterns from before the Collapse, the book that had taught them both to see what others couldn't. "Have you noticed anything missing?" her teacher asked, voice barely steady. The book trembled in her grip. Lefty's claws began to itch as she pulled out her log, three weeks of careful records documenting the gaps in her collection. Every missing shell was pre-Collapse. Every single one. She looked at the book again, at the proof her teacher carried of knowledge only three people possessed, and understood why the old woman had come frightened to her door. One of them was a thief.