Write

Malcolm's coo became a cry. The big hands came, to sweep him up, into the dark, cradled, into the big arms. And his cries, despite himself and the rage that swelled within him, subsided.

The big arms swayed, the soft sounds soothed, and Malcolm rocked, he swum, he spun. His arms too small too tired, his legs useless and swaddled up. He liked the rocking, it eased the ache of his anger. It reminded him of the wheel.

The spinning wheel of endless endless, the wheel of flame, where his candle was relit, where his heart was reforged. From the wheel he was spit into the cold and harsh and bright, with the blanket nests and the big ones with their big hands.

He remembered the wheel. He remembered before that, too, lying on his bed, his arms too week too tired, his legs useless for many years, and Sarah looking down at him to soothe. The sounds. Like the ones that rocked him now.

He wanted the old sounds the old hands in his. He was frightened of the new world. He wanted to scream. He couldn't do this. Be so helpless, not again.

Where is the wheel? Where