One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! Lina points at each star with a sticky honey-finger. They hang fat and golden over the little village.
The third star winks out. Lina drops her hand and stares at the dark hole where the light used to be. Wind pushes a thin ribbon of fog across the dunes.
She snatches Grandpa's brass telescope from the corner shelf. Steps past the last stone of the village. The dunes swallow her boots in soft, dry sand.
The sand murmurs old stories in a raspy voice. In a pool of low fog stands the cloud-sheep, wool tangled with wisps of mist. It tilts its head.
'The key... below,' the sheep whispers, sinking halfway into the fog. Lina's shoes squish. She grabs its ear and says, 'Come on, then.' Its eyes go wide. It trots ahead.
They walk through dunes that sing. One hums low. One rasps like a rusty gate. One sounds like a boiling kettle. The sheep plants its hooves at a deep crack.
'Too fuzzy to climb. You go, friend.' Lina unrolls her tea towel, ties it to a sharp rock, and lowers herself down. Sand dusts her hair. Far below, something small and blue glints.
Her fingertips hover over the Star Key, tiny and warm as a teacup. A tangle of wool drops over the crack's edge. The cloud-sheep grunts, all puffed up, hooves hooked on the rock lip.
The sheep heaves. The Key pops into Lina's palm. The dune above CRACKS like splitting wood. Sand everywhere. They scramble up while the sheep shakes its whole body like a wet dog.
Lina climbs the highest crest and sets the warm Key on the flat rock. The sky fizzes, pops, blooms. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. The sheep ploops down beside her, chews a tuft of fog. The dunes whisper a softer song.