Emmanuel 7.18 finds himself a glorified errand-boy, hauling the local riverbed clay up from the basement where it is kept cool and wet in sealed containers. It's more physical labor than he’s used to while on his Debt, but he finds he doesn’t mind. It reminds him of being home—when he’s home with his batch-sibs, he’s the default heavy lifter. He has two good arms and no gash in his chest.

The godmaker smiled pleasantly and made his way home quickly as he could. He shut the doors of his shop and lay in his bed, telling himself again and again about the power of coincidence. Belief did strange things to the mind, made patterns appear where there were none, made three incidents seem a certainty. He was a craftsman, nothing more. He sold icons and idols, nothing more. “I cannot make gods,” he said, though there was nobody to hear him.