Saturday May 2, 2013
The latter half of Derek’s rest had been quiet and still. His arms and legs hadn’t even twitched since he’d first closed his eyes the night before. He felt as if he’d been painted into his sheets while he slept. Even his hands were just as he’d left them, resting across his rib cage, fingers neatly kneaded together. Pain was waiting for him the instant he moved. He pivoted his body, forced his legs off the mattress and to the floor, his spine screaming like a taut mooring line joining the two drifting halves of his body. A simple push and he was entirely risen.
He undressed and quickly showered. His thoughts were characteristically distant as he went about his morning habits. Only the pain differentiated this day from any other. He might have to get his bandages changed, too. Although Dr. Paulson had given some extra dressings and a few sterile gloves to his mother his instructions were to return to him to have the dressing done under the right conditions. He would do this at no cost to them, but Derek had decided that the trip there was an unnecessary step, all the same.
The smells of breakfast trailed up the stairs and he followed them down. Derek had never had a large appetite. Still, he wasn’t sure if he’d gone this long without a meal before. If his body had been capable of hurrying, he certainly would have been doing it. His mother wasn’t waiting at the table, but the hot oatmeal, sliced apples, and milk were welcome enough this morning. There was also a blueberry muffin sitting on a linen napkin. This was unusual. She must have known he would be ravenous. How were the oats still hot? How did she know? She must have been listening for him to awaken.
As he sat down, he caught sight of her through the kitchen window. She was in the backyard, which was normal for her on a Sunday morning. The store didn’t open on the Sabbath, but they weren’t churchgoers, so she tended her garden between breakfast and lunch. It was a good day for that, sunny and clear, but she wasn’t in her garden now, not even in her gardening clothes. She was walking a circle around the large pignut hickory tree that Derek’s room oversaw. He couldn’t tell what she was doing, probably a squirrel had caught her eye. She adored little animals and often tried to coax the squirrels to fetch the bitter little hickory nuts from her hand. Derek figured the tree had been planted about a hundred years before, probably with the intention of someday turning its wood into ax handles. Hickory trees were good for that, and Derek had never heard of anyone growing them for their looks. It had probably never occurred to the builder of this farm that its future inhabitants wouldn’t know how to fix most of the things they owned, even less make tools. With a crumpled and nervous expression, she turned and saw him sitting at the table and came in halfway through the back door.
“Did you hear anything last night?” she asked, spooked. Derek shook his head, and she lingered in the archway, staring at him. She then stepped a little farther in and turned around, looking back out the door again at whatever it was that was bothering her. “You should come out here and see something,” she said.
Derek nodded and left his breakfast, a slice of apple teetered on his plate as he slid back the chair. He followed her outside. She was standing in front of the hickory and he couldn’t see what it was that was that had her so rattled. She noticed this and stepped to the side in a hurry. Derek stopped dead. At first, he didn’t know what he was looking at, the bark had been shorn away on the side that faced the house, exposing the meat underneath it. But that wasn’t all - three lines had been slashed diagonally across the bare wood. They were perfectly parallel, as if they were made in one hefty motion of three blades. Rose was a bit nervous, but she was doubly curious as to what her son knew. “Derek? Do you know anything about this?”
“No,” he said. He didn’t look at her when he said it.
“No? Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
Derek’s mother took a step back, suspicious and uneasy. “Why in the world would somebody do this? Do you think Miranda-Julia did this? Is she mad at me because I made her show Peter Huffy around? I shouldn’t have asked her.”
“No, mom.” That was no lie. Miranda-Julia wouldn’t have done this. Derek went up close. The scores were deep, nearly an inch, and set widely apart. As for the rest of her questions, Derek left those alone. His mother had a habit of blaming herself for everything that happened in their lives, and Derek had learned that nothing he said would change that.
“I just don’t know what to say,” Rose said, getting up close, too. She picked at the little hairy splinters clustered in and out of the gashes. “Does it look like they did it with a saw? I think it’s too messy for that. It looks like a…I don’t know, a sickle or something.”
Derek nodded without much enthusiasm. “Yeah, maybe.”
“But all the bark’s gone,” she continued. Derek glanced down at the grass. It was true, all the bark that had been torn away was missing. There were little chunks and flakes scattered around, though, and she brushed her foot carefully over one as if that would reveal something important. Rose began to settle down, but Derek could tell that she would be fretting for quite a while after this. “I guess it was a bear. What else could it be? I guess I was just a little spooked. A bear came out here and ate the bark. Maybe it was starving, or something. We’re lucky it didn’t tear up the fence.” She backed away from the tree, rubbing her arms, as if it was chilly. It wasn’t, though. “I’m gonna look around. I’m probably going to call Gil later and tell him about it.” She walked off around the house, rather than through it.
Derek continued to stare, bewildered, at the scratches. Unlike his mother, he was certain who’d left the marks. Derek went back upstairs to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. He reached for a book on the bottom of his shelf. It was the Farmer’s Almanac. Derek bought a new one every year. When he found a moon calendar, he read without a hint of surprise.
Three nights from now was the full moon. Bright and beautiful, its glow would be an utterly dependable guide for one who would be stalking through the forest. Someone making a rendezvous deep in the congested belly of Bunyine Woods. Derek thought of the grass below the hickory tree. It wasn’t clumsily trampled, or even disturbed, as if by some cumbersome animal, lacking all grace. Besides the small mess, it was like nothing had ever been there. Nevertheless, the Bunyine had been in his yard, standing right where he stood now. It was an awful thing, having a nightmare follow you home. They were supposed to vanish when your eyes opened. Not anymore. It worked differently now.
It had shown him that it was not something to be dreaded merely from afar. No, it was very real, and very near. It was not just a message, but a promise, like a hieroglyphic with numerous meanings. It promised that Derek would undoubtedly show up three nights from now at the cave. Derek knew, without a doubt, that this was the message. The Bunyine knew his home, knew his mother, and that was enough to guarantee he’d be there. Perhaps the beast hoped he would not grasp the meaning of the message, giving it an excuse to come for them? Upon some thought, Derek doubted it. The sun and the moon ruled over the Bunyine’s world in the same way his mother ruled Derek’s own. It would be natural for it to allude to it. Whether that was true or not, the terms of failure did not need to be discussed. The boy’s imagination was capable enough of doing that for itself. The Bunyine had spoken. Three nights from now, Monday, they would meet again.
As soon as Peter was awake, Alyssa marched up the attic stairs with his phone and insisted he make an appointment with a doctor, holding it right up to his face. Peter didn’t know who the doctor was in Sparkle, and he assured her he would find out immediately. That excuse would buy him a couple of days, at least. After that, he would have to, actually, bother doing something about it.
His head throbbed like it had been tunneled out for the Union Pacific Railroad. Whatever had brought on that head spasm was a mystery. That odd dream must have been some kind of symptom. I’ve heard of things like that, I’m pretty sure. Head stuff is always unpredictable and weird. It was only after analgesics were in his system (the potent super-mixture of Advil and Tylenol) that he started to feel like himself, again. Of course, feeling like himself, to begin with, wasn’t necessarily feeling good. He felt unhealthy, which was normal. He knew he had to change his ways. Inwardly, he chastised himself. Pop Tarts and Pepsi only get you so far along the road of life. You have to stop, now and then, and force down a vegetable or two. Something veggie-flavored, at least. As 'geeks' went, though, Peter was in admirable shape. He was the healthiest guy that he knew. He’d even been to the dentist, one time, since he'd graduated college.
Peter needed his desktop computer back. It was getting very serious. The cable had been installed before they arrived, so that was ready to go. It made him feel like he was standing in a line that wasn’t moving. His laptop had died on the road trip. The fan broke, somehow, and he’d not noticed it. How distracted could he have been? He supposed that since he’d never had it on for more than a few minutes at a time, he’d never detected it overheating or the resulting decrease in operational time. He’d been wanting to catch up on everyone he’d left behind back in California, yet, he also didn’t. Alyssa’s got that little HP. No, no, no. Be a man for Christ’s sake. As soon as he switched on the power he would be trapped for hours, transfixed on nothing. He was an addict, and it was embarrassing.
Alyssa was adjusting perfectly to their new environment, and he felt he should try, at least. Peter closed his eyes and fantasized about living in a world in which he owned a working computer of his own, and didn’t have to use it. This was going to be very hard. If he could just manage his withdrawal, it would be a great first step to complete independence.
The first thing he’d do, though, when his computer arrived, was spend an hour, perhaps more, responding to the dozens of backed up messages. He had no choice. Even though he’d made sure that everyone he knew was aware that he might be out of reach for a few days, that wouldn’t stop half of them writing every hour of the day, demanding to know why they were being ignored.
By noon, he was getting uncharacteristically antsy. He went out onto the wraparound balcony and walked around to the back of the house. He sat down in his rocking chair, which Alyssa had purchased that very morning. He hadn't even mentioned that he'd liked it. The movement of the chair helped him think. He’d encountered the same phenomenon while standing in the shower. Thoughts started to race, ideas began to take form. This would put him in a frame of mind in which he could strike a vein of brain gold. He’d had such breakthroughs standing mesmerized in the shower, his mouth hanging open. He was often out of the bathroom and dressed when he realized he hadn’t ever gotten around to washing himself.
The back side of the balcony overlooked the sudden, steep western slope of their hill. Peter suspected it had once been packed with trees. The whole plateau that this house was built on was, supposedly, nothing but wilderness a century-and-a-half ago. Looking around, it was hard to believe that Douglas Windward came out here on his own and cleared out this whole area. It sounded like an implausible effort for one man. Peter supposed that Douglas was just one of those unbelievably tough, impossibly hard-working men that used to exist long ago, in the Age of Heroes. Peter imagined the young man from his dream out stomping over hill and dale like Paul Bunyan, shaving down a thousand trees to the quick with a swing of his ax, leaving nothing behind but smooth-topped stumps and stunned little forest animals.
After just a few minutes of rocking, Peter realized that he was starting to feel extraordinary. At first he thought the bucketful of caffeine and sugar he’d flooded his body with was kicking in a little harder than normal. Soon enough, though, he realized that it wasn’t the usual sugar shivers. It felt like a living thing was trapped in his stomach. Peter fell forward off the chair to his knees, his arms clutching his belly. He gasped for air on the floorboards of the deck. It felt as if his organs were twisting and pulsing, containing a beast that was pounding its feet and swinging its fists, raging to escape the tethers of the human form. The sensation wasn’t pain. Not exactly.
“Heeeeellll…,” Peter croaked. Just a moment later, he knew he didn’t need help, he needed to move. To run! No, to leap! Hot energy crackled and smacked inside him. For a second, Peter thought he might be able to fly. He popped up to his feet, and with a hop, he flew over the railing of the balcony and plunged like a cinder block. No matter how much you believe, there are things people just cannot do on their own. Flying being very near the top of that list. Peter hit the grassy slope and tumbled, laughing as he went and soaring in spirit, spinning end-over-end like a wagon wheel all the way to the base of the hill. After he hit, he just lay there, void of word or thought, his body shuddering.
His fits passed, as fits do, and he took the longest, most satisfying breath of his life. This was the best part. Limbic euphoria. Endorphins colliding with opioid receptors. Of course, it might feel even better if I didn’t know how it worked. But what followed was unexpected. It wasn’t something new, exactly, but something he’d not felt in decades. Fantasies washed over him the same as they did as when he was a child, back in those days when he’d been able to simply close his eyes and the whole world would instantly vanish, succumbing to a stampede of delights that pounded through the mind like buffalo across a prairie. He lay there on his back for an hour, giggling and giddy with excitement, swinging his arms, a buccaneer engaged in a half-dozen sword fights, and winning every one. What a wonderful world this was, so full of possibilities, so unrestrained. When it ended, he was breathless and panting. He felt like a million dollars spent, and worth every penny.
When it was over he lay there, stunned. What just happened? It had started on the deck with that jump. The feeling that had preceded the act had felt like something new, something altogether different. Maybe it was new, that’s why it was so explosive. It was an addict’s first shot of morphine, or the havoc of caffeine on a naïve brain. He couldn’t have stopped himself from leaping. It was too far beyond reason. So strange, so unfamiliar, that he wasn’t certain he could describe it. It had to be felt to be understood. How would he put it into words, though, if he had to? One word? Exhilaration? No, that’s maybe ten percent of it. Two words maybe? Serenity? How about Serene-Exhilaration? Serene and exhilarating. Opposites complementing one another. But those were just the extreme ends. There was a whole middle part that he couldn’t even begin to explain.
Was this what that Douglas apparition had been talking about? He had said something about being different. Was this what he meant? But isn't Douglas me, though? That was my dream. Dreams come from yourself. He was not ready to believe in ghosts. What in the world was happening? Oddly enough, he was enjoying it, whatever it was. What would the next adventure be? He had to do something. The thought struck him almost immediately. That cave! That strange, wondrous mystery of the cave. Was there really a cave? How strange was it to be so taken by something so mundane as a hole in a hillside?
“Oh, my god,” he said, speaking to no one. “I’ve got to know.”
It took Peter about ninety minutes to get back to the stream. Mostly, because it was a very lazy walk. Peter felt like he was in no particular hurry, yet, his anticipation was so thick it seemed like a whole other person strolling alongside him. You could drape a coat around its shoulders and shake its hand. As Peter approached the bridge, his attention started to focus on the task at hand. Okay, I don’t know what I’m going to find up there, but I should be ready to run for my life. That kid, Derek, he handled being all screwed up like a man. So let’s make sure what happened to him doesn’t happen to me. If it’s a bear, though, you’re not supposed to run, right? You don’t run from bears? That’s a rule. You’re supposed to just hit the dirt, curl up into the fetal position, and let them eat you. Remember that, Peter: Stop. Drop. Die.
Peter was lost in his thoughts, but he wasn’t too distracted, as he reached the bottom of the bridge, to notice a boy about ten years old sitting on the opposite bank of the stream. The boy wasn’t fishing. Not that Peter could tell. He was just idling, whistling some unfamiliar melody and dangling his bare feet in the tumbling water. Strange, right down to his weird old clothes. He wore a button-up shirt, a tweed coat and cap. His pants were those old types that stopped at the knees. What are those called, again? Knickers? Hmm. What the heck is a knicker, and why did kids need a plurality of them, back in the day? You too good for one knicker, kid? Peter could see the boy’s long, argyle socks coiled around his shoes in the grass nearby. His quaint apparel, mussed brown hair and bright red cheeks made a perfect, wide-eyed Norman Rockwell picture of innocence. Was this real life? Was this really happening? Peter wasn’t sure. The seams of reality seemed to be fraying, again.
Peter turned away from the bridge and stepped right up to the bank. Before he could speak he noticed the oddest thing: a squirrel standing in the grass just behind the boy. Just standing there, no more than a foot away, calm as can be. It was the strangest thing Peter had ever witnessed. For a second, he looked suspiciously around him, as if some prank was being orchestrated. The boy and the animal both seemed completely oblivious to the laws of nature, one of which is that squirrels and people do not fraternize. Squirrels were neurotic, paranoid creatures that dashed away at the slightest hint of threat. “Is that a pet squirrel, or something?” Peter spoke across the water.
The boy didn’t seem to hear him. So he stood, arms crossed, waiting on a response that never came. He tried, again, simply to break the quiet.
“How do you do that?”
The boy looked up this time, and smiled. He gestured at the squirrel. “Seems dat e’s just curious, is all. It’s not us doin it.”
The boy’s language and accent was so unexpected, it startled Peter for a moment.
“How do you keep from scaring them away?”
The boy poked his head at the little woodland creature. “Well, dis one ‘ere, ‘e’s a brave one. ‘is brother ganged it, quick, tho’!”
Peter’s brow crinkled and he nodded. “Yeah, I bet.”
“May I be askin’ ya sumping, sir?”
Peter grimaced, then nodded. “Um…you wanna ask me something?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Shoot.”
The boy gave him a perplexed look, then went on, carefully. “Is you frum round ‘ere, sir?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is you frum ‘ere? Dis place, sir?”
Peter shook his head. “Uh, not exactly here. No.”
“Oh, ah see.”
“I’m from Kansas.”
The boy squinted, thinking. “Kansas? Niver ‘eard o’ dat one.”
“You never heard of Kansas?”
“Where’s it at? Dis place ‘ere?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where’s it at, dis place?”
“Oh. Um…this is Pennsylvania.”
The boy nodded. He didn’t seem to find their divide in language peculiar. “Pencil Sylvaneur. No kiddin? Niver ‘eard o’ that, eitha.”
“So where are you from?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a tyke.”
“Oh, right. I’d already guessed that, actually,” Peter quipped, as he often did in strange circumstances. “I could see that from a mile away.”
“So…um…where’s Pencil Sylvaneur at?”
Peter was taken back. “You mean, what country? The United States?”
“Hell Fire!” the boy yelped, eyes wide as the moon. He yanked his legs out of the stream and hopped up to his feet. Peter did not notice that the boy’s legs were dry. He did notice how small the child was. He wondered if he was even younger than he looked.
“Where did you think you were?” Peter asked.
“I doon’t knew,” the boy replied, with a shrug. “I were thinkin’ this were Wharfedale. Niver bin dere.
“Nope. You’re in America, kiddo.”
The boy nodded, but not as if the question had been answered to his satisfaction. “So that’s ‘ow ‘mericans sound. I always wondered.”
“What’s your name?”
“Name’s Dickon,” the boy said, doffing his cap. “Dat much I can say, cause dat much I know.”
“Well, hello Dickon. I’m Peter Huffy.”
“Gewd day, Mr. ‘uffy,“ Dickon politely turned around and walked away, as if he were keeping an appointment. He stuck to the bank of the bubbling stream, then he veered off toward the trees. Peter was immediately concerned.
“Wait, Dickon! You’re just gonna walk out into the woods? Walk into the woods in your bare feet?”
Dickon nodded at Peter, already over his surprise from just moments before. “Ya must walk in, sir, ‘fore ya can walk out.”
“I mean, where are you going?”
Dickon turned back. “Well, dis ‘ere place, sir,“ he gestured his surroundings. “Is unfamiliar to us. I needs ta fine a safe place.”
“Find a safe place? Why? Hey, where’s your family, Dickon?”
Dickon shook his head, looked downward. “That’s n ‘ard question ta answer, sir. I ‘ave ta think about it. When ah see thee agin, I’ll gi’ you an answer. Oh, by the by, yonder woods…” Dickon pointed uphill, where the road led. “Doon’t go up thar.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, surely ya know," said Dickon, his face suddenly seriously "Can not ya feel it, sir?”
“What? Feel what?”
“Sumpin’…sumpin’,” For a moment, Dickon fishing for words. He looked around, brow wrinkling. “Doon’t know what ta call it.”
Peter nodded, glad that someone else in Sparkle was confused. “What do you know about it? Up there?”
“Not certeen, sir” the boy said, jabbing at the woods with his thumb. “Except up there’s no place ta be gonin’.” With a smile, Dickon then turned and disappeared into the trees, leaving Peter standing there, watching. He remained there for a while, bewildered, not knowing what to do, or what to think about what to do.
While he was speaking to the boy, it seemed like just another odd conversation. One of those strange Sparkle chats. He was getting used to not understanding what was going on most of the time. After the boy left, though, that feeling hit Peter, again. That Serene-Exhilaration. It was a bit fainter, but it seemed to indicate that something very strange was going on. Even if that wasn’t obvious, already, something was signaling him.
He didn’t bother using the bridge. It didn’t seem adventurous enough. He just traipsed across the stream on his toes, cursing the cold and wet under his breath as it filled his shoes. When he reached the bank, his sopping wool socks burst clear water out onto the fluffy grass. He slogged over to the edge of the forest and stopped, too apprehensive to just barrel into leaf and bush, like some wild boar. Here the land took a sharp hike upward, a steep Pennsylvanian hill, putting the undergrowth in his eyes. He took a step, just to get a better look, but there was nothing to see. So, in he went, stumbling uphill, forcing his way through bushes, prickly spruce, and pine.
Part of the way up the hill, he came to a large, flat rock shelf that looked vaguely like an end table, but missing the giant vase. A second thought Peter had was that the shelf was an old well, or a cistern. That’s what it looked most like to him. The well’s mouth was wider than a king-size bed and closed over by some kind of wooden lid. The lid didn’t look like it was made to cover this well, it didn’t fit to it perfectly, even if it did cover it completely. Peter reached up and took a thick handful of the plant strands, and with a yank and a push he was scrambling over the edge. At the top was a huge curtain of even more ivy pouring down over the stone. At the foot of it was the boy Dickon, sleeping on his side, his shoes set down next to him and his hat over his face, looking as if he’d been there for hours, as if they hadn’t been talking just minutes before.
Peter was disappointed. This was not what he’d expected. He hadn’t been certain what he was looking for, but it was more than this. Adventure. Mystery. That was what this whole day had been about! What had been that spectacular feeling that had driven him half mad? Stupidly, he had assumed that it was some kind of predictor of things to come. Apparently not. What did he do next? Peter dropped down and crossed his legs, pouting. The emotions he’d felt earlier had been so intense, he’d been ready for a whirlwind, not this lazy breeze. The disappointment was severe, like he’d jumped off a diving board and missed the pool.
The child made very little noise. Or none. The boy was as still as a rock. Peter didn’t hear any respiration, and it didn’t look like his chest was rising and falling. Peter considered the situation. What happens when it gets dark, later? I can’t leave a kid out here by himself. No, I can’t. This is the outdoors. Kids aren’t supposed to be outdoors at night. There could be a Jabberwocky out here in these woods. Who knows in this weird place?
Peter reached out and poked the boy in the heel. Nothing happened.
“Dickon? Dickon?” he repeated softly. However, it felt like he was shouting, as it goes when someone is sleeping nearby. He leaned forward and playfully smacked the boy on the bottom of his foot. “Hey, Dickon?” There was still nothing. The child was soundly unconscious. Peter did not know what to do. Mind made up, Peter took hold of the boy’s shoulder and gently shook him. “Dickon! Hey, Dickon! I’m sorry, I just wanna know if you’re gonna be okay. Dickon?” The boy was as unresponsive as a cadaver. He felt like something that was not alive. “Jesus!” Peter croaked. He then dropped down and turned the boy onto his back. He put his head to his chest, listening for a heartbeat. He heard nothing. “Jesus! Oh, my God!” Peter wasn’t certain what to do. His panic felt strangely out of control, as if he were on some kind of recreational drug to which he had a bad reaction. The boy didn’t feel corpse-cold when he touched his throat, but he didn’t feel warm, like you’d expect a living boy to feel.“Oh, man. This is…this is…oh, my god. What’s it called? Heimlich? No, no! Cardio…pul…resuscitation! C.P.R.! Gotcha!”
Peter knew he had to do C.P.R. He’d learned it in Junior High, but that was quite a while back. There’s something about holding the nose shut and breathing into the mouth. “Oh, my god,” he pleaded, face sinking into his hands. “God, don’t make me do this, please. Don’t…” He suddenly decided he had no choice, he couldn’t take the chance of not saving the boy. Wait, what about that chest-thumping thing they do in movies? You only have to pound on their chest. A heart thump? People just, magically, come back to life when you do that! I saw it in The Abyss! Wait. Did that woman live or die? “Okay. Here we go.”
Peter clenched his fist and made ready to strike, but the boy, to Peter’s breathless relief, started to stir. His eyes popped open, his smile was like a bow on a present. Pleased to see him, again, the boy reached up and gently put his hand on Peter’s arm. “It’s orril right, Mr. ‘uffy. I come back for ya.”
Peter found he had tears in his eyes. He wasn’t certain how he’d gotten so worked up. His emotions were out of control for a few moments there. It was strange and unnerving. It was different. It was new. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his red eyes. “Came back for me, huh? Where did you come back from, Dickon? Pencil Sylvania?”
The boy’s angelic face was aglow with youthful charm, like the flicker of a candle in a snow-rimmed window. “Ya needn’t worry, Mr. ‘uffy. I went deep down, is all. I nip on in the afternoon. Ya needn’t worry on it.”
“Deep down where?” Peter asked, fixing his glasses back on his face.
“I saw the ‘ouse, Mr. ‘uffy. Your ‘ouse.”
“My house? You know my house? When did you see my house?”
“My mind is that it’s your ‘ouse. Not da real ‘ouse. I come back knowin’ it was yours.”
Peter squinted and bit his lip. It didn’t take a lot of thinking before Peter realized what kind of dream the boy had. “What other place?”
The boy was distracted, however, his eyes staring up and off into nothing. “I won’t be gonin’ back.”
“Did you meet anyone there, Dickon?” Peter asked. “A man a little younger than me?”
Dickon’s gently shook his head. His voice and eyes were very distant. “I won’t be gonin’ back, Mr ‘uffy. I’m not welcome thar, in dat other place. Not welcome thar.”
Peter loosed a huge lungful of air, frazzled but relieved. “There’s other places you can go, Kiddo. Places you’re welcome.”