He passed the Temple of Rust, a magnificent arch formed by an old tin can. He navigated the Perilous Currents of the 5-Way Split, dodging a flotilla of dead matches. Each junction he passed, the number inside him ticked down. 9. 8. 7.

The drop felt the pull of the oil's embrace. It would be easy to merge, to lose his tiny, frantic self in that oily, indifferent calm. No more counting. No more climbing.

He landed in a pool of stagnant tea, shared a brief, silent greeting with a piece of floating parsley, and continued.

He stopped. The number was gone. The hum was silence.

It was a 1-in-10 chance any pipe led to the sun. But the wall led straight up. It was a thousand times his height. It was impossible. He was a single drop of water.

"New blood," the oil gurgled, its voice a slow, poisonous purr. "Lost? They all get lost. Stay here. The dark is safe. The light evaporates you."

He didn't know. He had no number to guide him. He only had his tiny, trembling self, and the memory of the journey. The Grease-Falls. The Warden. The leap.

At the 6th junction, he met The Warden. A greasy, iridescent slick of motor oil, sprawling and arrogant.