Running helped. The physical exertion burned through some of the chemical fog in his brain. His boots slapped against the wet pavement as he sprinted back toward District 3, ignoring the confused meows of the citizens.
He didn't stop at the piers this time. He went straight for the dunes, past Barnaby's shack, past the place where he had traded his warmth.
The grey sand stretched out endlessly, merging with the fog. It was a landscape of nothingness. A blank canvas waiting for a painter.
"Where are you?" Noah shouted. His voice sounded small, swallowed by the mist.
Then, he saw it.
It wasn't in the water. It was navigating the dunes, moving slowly across the sand as if sailing on invisible waves. It bobbed and weaved, leaving a trail in the sand.
It was a boat. But not a fishing boat. It was made of dark, polished wood, with a little cabin on top and a curved hull. It was a model, waist-high, but moving with the weight and purpose of a real ship.
Noah ran to it. He fell to his knees in the sand, catching the boat by its hull. It stopped moving, the magical wind filling its nonexistent sails dying down.
He ran his hands over the wood. It was smooth, varnished. He knew this texture. He knew the grain of this wood. He had sanded this wood himself, feeling the dust coat his hands. He remembered the smell of sawdust and varnish in a garage with the door open to a summer storm.
He looked at the side of the boat. There, painted in small, white, uneven letters, was a name.
NOAH'S ARK
The world stopped spinning. The fog didn't lift, but a spotlight seemed to shine on that name.
"Noah's Ark," he read aloud. The syllables locked into place.
"Look, Daddy! It's your boat! It's Noah's boat!"
The glitch hit him hard, dropping him onto his back in the sand.
ZAP.
He was in a garage. The smell of rain was replaced by the smell of gasoline and cedar. A little girl with pigtails was holding a paintbrush, getting varnish all over her hands and her new dress.
"Why is it called an Ark, Daddy?" she asked, squinting at the letters.
"Because, Katy. In the old stories, an Ark was a promise. It was a way to save the things you loved from the storm. It kept them safe until the water went away."
"Are you going to save me from the storm, Daddy?" she asked, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.
"Always, baby. Always. I built this just for us."
ZAP.
Noah gasped, sucking in the damp air of Catsopolis. He sat up, clutching the wooden boat to his chest as if it were a life preserver.
"Noah," he whispered. "My name is Noah."
He looked around at the empty, foggy beach. The fear of the morning was gone, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. The "candy" Catherine had given him had worn off, burned away by the truth.
"I am Noah," he said, louder this time. "I am a father. And I built this."
He stood up, lifting the heavy model with a strength he didn't know he had.
"And I promised to save her."
Far away, near the city center, the static buzzed angrily, but Noah didn't care. He had his name back. He had his vessel. And he was going to ride out the storm.