Once a month all the men in Rosehip grow wings and fly off, leaving behind only women and children. “Where do they go?” Cedar asks the woman whose floor she’s crashing on when they’re not hooking up.

“Who knows?” says the woman and shrugs. “Who cares?”

Well, Cedar cares, for one, so she makes friends with a long-legged but sad-faced boy and convinces him to take her up with them. “You gotta be chill,” he says, as she clings to his back.

Cedar snorts. “I’m always chill.”

“You are never, ever chill.” They’re riding on an aerial, and it’s shockingly quiet. “Look, just keep quiet and don’t praise, uh, God. We’ve had problems with that before.”

Cedar just laughs and laughs. The great bowl of the world wheels below them.