Myastar's mother could not lift the water bucket anymore. So Myastar carried it down to the basin herself, twelve steps from their cottage door. The town council had given every family thirty days to leave. Rent money would buy time. Myastar was twelve, and she had one way to make money: her drawings. She knelt at the edge of the clear water and washed the last dishes. Her hands shook. Inside, her mother coughed on the mat, purple face turned toward the wall. Medicine cost money too. Myastar dried her hands on her purple dress and made a decision. She had eleven drawings rolled in her arms. Foxes. Tigers. A rabbit she had copied from a real one by the river. Each one took her two hours. She planned to sell them for five or ten dollars near the water, where people passed all day. Myastar set up on a flat rock beside the basin. She spread the drawings out and weighed the corners with pebbles. Then she waited. The blue water moved slow and quiet behind her. Her stomach growled. People came. A woman with a basket looked and walked on. Two men laughed at something else and did not stop. An hour passed. Myastar's face grew hot. She wanted to run back inside and hide the drawings under the mat. Then a girl with dirty blonde hair stopped. She looked about ten. She stared at the drawing of the rabbit for a long time. "Did you draw all these?" the girl asked. "Yes," Myastar said. "Five dollars each." The girl dug in her pocket and pulled out coins. She counted them twice. "I only have three dollars." Myastar looked back at the cottage. She heard her mother cough again through the thin wall. Three dollars was not ten. But three dollars was more than nothing. "Okay," Myastar said. "Three dollars for the rabbit." The girl grinned and handed over the coins. She held the drawing like it was made of glass. "My little sister will love this. Can you make more animals?" Myastar's heart jumped. "I can make anything." "Then I'll tell people," the girl said. She pointed down the row of cottages. "Lots of families here have kids. Everybody wants pretty things before we all have to leave." She ran off with the rabbit under her arm. Myastar held the three coins tight. She had sold one drawing. It was not enough for rent. It was not enough for medicine. But it was proof that her drawings were worth money. Then she counted her rolls and understood the new problem. She had ten drawings left and only twenty-seven days. One sale in one hour was too slow. If word spread, she would need far more animals, drawn faster, before the council came. She gathered her pencils and hurried inside to start the next one.

Two days later, Myastar had sold four more drawings. But her paper was almost gone. She counted the sheets on her mat and found only three left. Each animal took one sheet. Three sheets meant three animals, then nothing. The store in town sold paper, but a whole pad cost six dollars. She had four. Without more paper, she could not make enough to sell before the council came. She pressed her fists against her knees and tried to think. Her mother coughed from the mat by the wall. Myastar knew she could not ask her for money. So she rolled her three sheets under her arm and walked out to find another way. She went to the cheerful yellow-and-white cottage down the row, the one with flowers spilling from every window box. An older girl lived there. Myastar had seen her sketching by the water once. The girl opened the door before Myastar could knock. She was tall, seventeen, with long black hair and a purple dress. A pencil sat tucked behind her ear. "You're the one selling animals," Connie said. She did not smile, but she stepped back to let Myastar in. "My little cousin has your rabbit taped to her wall." "I need paper," Myastar said. The words came out fast. "I'm almost out. I can't buy more. I have to sell before we all leave." Connie studied her for a moment. Then she crossed to a shelf and lifted down a thick stack of white sheets. She set it on the table with a soft thump. "I used to draw," Connie said. "I stopped. My hands got busy with other things." She pushed the stack toward Myastar. "Take it. All of it." Myastar stared. The stack held more sheets than she could count. Fifty, maybe sixty. Weeks of animals. "I can't pay you." "I didn't ask you to." Connie folded her arms. "But I want half of what you make selling them. We're all trying to keep our cottages. I'd rather split money than watch you starve for paper." Myastar hugged the stack to her chest. Half was less than all. But half of many was far more than all of nothing. "Yes," she said. "Half." She carried the paper home and spread it across her mat. The sheets glowed white in the afternoon light. She sharpened her pencil and started a fox before she even sat down all the way. But as she drew the first line, a new worry pressed in. Sixty sheets meant sixty animals to finish, and the deadline had not moved. Connie's paper solved one problem and handed her a bigger one. She had the supplies now. She did not have the hours. To fill even half the stack before the council came, Myastar would have to draw faster than she ever had, and she would have to find far more people willing to buy.