The sidelong whiplash of his arm sent the boomerang soaring, pushing the sky to the horizon until the blade just hung there, a black slash on the sun so far away it seemed not to move at all before it came whirling back larger and larger: would it hit him, would he die — and you ducked down, terrified, clinging to his thigh, its deathspin slowing as it coptered softly down and he snatched it from the air.