Mako stirs from sleep to a grey drizzle and brushes away the gravel pressed into his skin. The city is slowly rousing from a sluggish haze too, satomobiles sounding like rolling waves in the distance. The newspapers he’d laid down as bedding last night are soaked, but the headlines are still legible. A child was born two days ago, on Air Temple Island, the whole world hushed to see if the spirits have blessed her with the gift of wind.
He puts the papers away and goes to wake Bolin. It looks like it will rain harder later.