A face for every name.
A story in every thing.

Rider, and the boy who says yes to everybody. He is the only person here who swims, and he says I’ll get that nine times a day and means it every time.

Head Rigger. Seven pockets, one category per pocket. She can hear a bad bearing three platforms away and has never been wrong, and when Nell runs, everyone runs.

Keeper of the Ledger — every trade, every debt, every birthday, in three books strapped together. He will not Match, because he will not make an animal love somebody who is leaving.

Came up the river from the Tally in the best-made coat in the Grove, and stands at an angle to whoever is talking so the door stays over her shoulder.

Runs the eleven Small and nine chicken-sized dinosaurs, out of a bucket holding snacks, string, a whistle, four beetles and a list. “I’m not little, I’m narrow. The difference is I fit.”

Green — food, hands, heavy work. He carries the calorie count of the whole village in his head and does not share it, and he arrives at every argument with something to eat.

Keeps the Ear: forty-one salvaged speakers on a rack over the water, powered by whoever is listening pedalling a bicycle. She takes the watch nobody else wants.

Far-scout. Out two days, four, once nine, and back with routes, water and where the patrols are walking. She keeps the Far Map: thirteen feet of paper, board and painted canvas.

First of the Tally, four foot ten, and the only person in either settlement who sits down under your eye line to say the thing. She writes you a receipt afterwards.

The runt of his clutch and finished growing. A crooked outer toe ticks on plank decking, so the whole Roost always knows he is coming — and he will not put a foot in water.

Six tons and wider than a car. Three slow knocks of his club on the decking means open the gate, and he will not cross a bridge until he has watched a person cross first.

Eight feet of folded tube inside four and a half feet of crest, and a note that carries three miles over water. She counts the village’s children, and if one is missing she will not move.

Eighteen feet and an appallingly quiet lope. Named for the number off her old tag, kept so nobody gets to pretend it did not happen. She steals hats and wears them terribly.

A yard long, three pounds, mostly tail, each tail painted a different color of salvaged nail polish. One clicks and nine synchronise inside four seconds.

Four wings and two pounds. He copies the bell, a door hinge and Tarn’s cough, always at the worst moment, and in rain he becomes a wet sock and sulks for hours.

Tall as a horse and steaming on cold mornings, which is the name. She will run all day, will not go through a doorway, and whistles about three seconds before she bolts.

A six-foot wingspan and one destination in the world: she only ever flies home. Every scout carries her out in a basket to send anything back.

Aunt Bess walks the treadwheel that raises the Lift. At the two-bell meal call, she stops walking, whatever is in the basket.

For decades, a remarkable pair of arms stood in for a whole animal. Follow the fossil evidence in the Field Notes, and see what later discoveries added.

A nesting site changed the questions people asked about dinosaur families. The Field Notes follow the evidence and distinguish it from the story’s inventions.

Seven giant monkey-puzzle kin came up through the drowned city. Platforms, ladders and rope bridges became a village above the water.

Half an acre of packed earth: the silted-over roof of a sunken parking garage. It is swept every morning, so the children can read the tracks.

The canoe landing is where the set-line run begins. Every boat has a name. Every crew needs counting home.

Salvaged parts become useful tools. Crook carries the Shop, the Lift and the Screw, a fire escape wound around the trunk.

Forty-one salvaged speakers lean out over the water. The watch runs day and night; a bicycle supplies the power.

Nine terraces grow food in bathtubs, gutters and truck beds. Everything grows in something that used to be something else.

The lookout is a hundred and eighty feet up. On a clear day you can see twelve miles. You climb the ratlines, so you cannot rush the lookout.

Forty feet of restaurant table bolted together under a tarp. Meals, school and votes all happen here. A green enamel mug waits at the head, and nobody drinks from it.

Boiler’s Yard, the Ring, the Long Paddock and the Soft Pen. Every latch opens in the same direction, so you can find your way in the dark.

A hundred and twelve children live in a flooded ballpark. They collar their animals and keep an account of what everyone owes.

A fire truck’s brake drum hangs ninety feet up Bell. Its signals call the village to meals, work and help. The Three Laws are painted on the rail.

One release lets an animal shed its rig in about a second. Using it is the first thing a Matched animal learns, before any useful job.

Odji’s three books are strapped together. Every trade, debt and birthday belongs in them. A vote records the question, the count and the date, never who voted which way.

The lantern jars are fed at grey light, and dark ones are reported. Each sleeping cubby has a jar; a dark cubby means its child is out.

Harness gear carries nets, water, rope, sound and other tools. Never bullets, blades or fire. A rig always carries a Cast-Off.

Painted on the bell rail: No rig points at a person. The spoken form is “Point it down.”

Painted on the bell rail: No dino carries a fight it did not choose. The spoken form is “Not her fight.”

Painted on the bell rail: Nobody goes Quiet alone. The spoken form is “Not alone.”