The last hearth still gives, but its arm is old: each night it sends warm stones skidding down the long ice toward the burrows where small things sleep, and no two throws are alike. The keeper runs beside them with a birch broom, sweeping the frost from the way — for a swept road keeps what the throw began. The keeper cannot throw, cannot carry, cannot choose the strength of the gift. Only the road is theirs, kept exactly as far as needed, and not one step farther.