“But — sometimes. Sometimes, at night, in bed, in the dark, Leela closed her eyes and made the mental pohe anyway. Not because she needed to. Because she wanted to. Because the mental pohe was not just the technique — the mental pohe was the memory. The memory of the hole. The memory of the darkness. The memory of the twelve-year-old who had found, in the darkness, the recipe that was the light. The recipe that was the mother. The recipe that was the survival.”