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says, “While I was working, a voice came to me and talked to me, and what the voice said, it was true. The customers I work for, they are each a piece of the works. That’s not how they see it, though; far as they know or care, they are the whole story. But the voice talked me through it and
I
can see it. I know they are each like a part of the windup. It is my job to put them together so it ticks, so the alarm goes off.
    “I haven’t been doing that. I just sold them what they wanted so they could send messages about abortion or bad laws or whatever their corner of truth is. I never gave two hoots and a damn about any of their ideas. I just took their money and gave them my expertise. It works out pretty good for everybody concerned. Nothing about that has to change. I will still make their messages. The customer will still get the satisfaction of making their point. But I can make sure those messages speak for us, too. From now on, the messages will all be part of the windup. I will make sure Those People know that.”
    Da picks up the clock’s spring and turns it over in his hand. He holds it out to me, I reach out, and he drops it on my palm.
    “From now on, we will send letters, plain paper letters, after each customer’s message. The letters will go through the regular mail. We will tell Those People things nobody but us knows about how the messages were built. We will make sure they talk to each other. Hell, we’ll give them a list of people they should be talking to. And even with all that, especially with all that, they won’t know who we are, because the customers don’t even know who we are. And the beauty of it? Those People will be afraid. We will be showing them exactly how to be afraid. We will wind them right up.
    “Valley will write the letter, because she writes beautifully. She will be the only one who touches the paper or the envelope. She will put a spot of her own blood on the message each time. That will be the signature. They can test that blood and know for damn sure that all the letters come from us. And they still won’t know who we are. Then, once we get Those People all wound up, we will sound the alarm. People will wake up.
    “There is one sad thing about this. It means Valley can’t come out with us into the world anymore. The voice said there can’t be any trace of her where they can find it. Not one hair from her head, not one speck of blood. So from now on, Bo will help in the outside, and Valley must stay here, at the den.”
    I look at the flat spring in my hand.
    The flat spring is part of the windup.
    The flat spring holds the tension.
    Is the flat spring lonely?
    If it is, it doesn’t say.
    I am quiet too.

Corbin opens the cupboard and puts two bowls on the counter.
    Eric whacks him on the back of the head with a spoon, then he drops it into one of the bowls. “We have a guest.”
    Corbin gets a third bowl.
    “You want something to eat?” Eric pulls a box out of the cupboard and shakes it. It’s Honey Nut Cheerios.
    “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
    The brothers walk to a brown leather couch and flop down, one at each end. There’s room for me in the middle, but some milk got splashed when they took their places. Eric looks at me standing there with my bowl in my hands, and then he looks at the spot on the couch. He leans over and wipes away the wet puddle with the tail of his T-shirt. The bowl in his other hand tips and milk sloshes out, carrying a raft of tiny cereal life preservers with it.
    A fat dog arrives to lick up the spilled food. It’s easy to see why he’s so fat.
    “Got the clicker,” says Corbin, and the TV is on.
    Eric reaches across me and snakes the remote control out of his brother’s lap and into his possession.
    “Hey, I’m watching that,” says Corbin.
    “You’ve seen that a bunch of times. The candle on the birthday cake is dynamite. The mouse always wins. The cat always loses. Anyway, the Beaver Trap blew up; it’s a pretty big deal. I bet