Click goes each bead, falling into place. Different colors run along a thin translucent line, tailored to whom it will be worn. My heart sank as one line was cut, small spheres going in directions.
The cold machines roll thunder through the countryside, aimed, poised. They have never ventured this far before. The monsters perch atop the machine's cabins. She peers through the blinds, knuckles white against her broom.