The boy in the labyrinth feeds the flame of his torch. Strips torn from his robe coil around the base for fire. And as the fire grows, so does his knowledge of the cold. The frayed ends of his threads wave like bare roots. The fire eats the air as lazy waves radiate in the haze. His bare thighs twitch. Chilled. In the darkness, a glint of his skin can be seen in the flash of his torch’s light. The tunnels bare the heat-tongue of the newly fed flame in the blackened archways. And in the flicker, the red thump of the boy’s heart leads the way.