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over,” pleaded Dechtire.
    “No,” said Orin firmly. “We’re too close to town.”
    “It’s hurting him, Orin!”
    “He will have to wait!”
    Orin’s voice rang so loud, and so definite, that Dechtire could not find an argument to put to him. She only continued to guide the truck in its hurtle towards the triple-junction: the left of which led West, the middle of which ran on into Baton Rouge, and the right of which wound down to Old Johnson Road. Dechtire veered precariously onto the last of these, and kept up speed as she plunged down into the lowering darkness. But then the accelerator began to stick, just as it sometimes did; and the truck glided to a stop in the middle of the road.
    “Damn it!” screamed Dechtire. “Damn it!”
    Caramon’s teeth were beginning to grind together. There came a low groan from deep in his throat, that sounded as an attempt to cry out. Nessa put a hand to the back of his neck, but it only slid off again, with the slickness of the sweat.
    “Do something, Dechtire!” she hollered.
    Dechtire pushed open the door, and leapt into the road. She knelt down, so that she might gain some leverage upon the accelerator, as she tugged it from its sticking place. When it jolted loose, she shoved it down again; and the engine revved successfully.
    “We must speak to Dahro about obtaining a new vehicle,” said Orin thoughtfully. “Goodness knows we can afford it.”
    When they came near to their plot of land, Dechtire swerved early from the road, and went careering North-East through the high grass. She braked violently before the barn, and slid quickly from the cab, so as to assist with the moving of Caramon. He could scarcely walk on his own, and needed be dragged away from the truck. Once in sight of the trees, however, Dechtire whipped the chain from round his neck; and he fell down to the ground, where his shape changed in an instant. Without a sound or a glance, he staggered to his feet, and went bounding towards the wood.
    “I will go with him,” said Dechtire. She removed her Turin, and handed it to Nessa.
    “Do you wish us to come?” asked Orin.
    “No,” answered Dechtire. “We will be fine.”
    In the blink of an eye, she added her low and loping shape to the shadows, and hurried on to gain pace with Caramon. Nessa looked after them for a moment; but then tucked Dechtire’s Turin into her pocket, and retrieved both her and Caramon’s clothing from the ground.
    “Come on, then, Orin,” she said, starting for the house.
    “Are you sure we should not go with them?” he asked.
    “They are swift, and strong,” said Nessa. “They will be all right on their own.”
    “Dechtire is not as swift or as strong as you.”
    “And neither are you,” said Nessa with a smile.

Chapter V:
    Birdie Post
     
    N ow we shall turn aside, for a moment, from the happenings at the house of Dahro. The present would be a better time than any to proceed with a short narrative concerning an individual soon to be a prominent figure in this tale, considering the fact that she is as of yet unaware of this circumstance. This lack of awareness assures us a description which is not biased by anything said or done, or thought or felt, as surely it would be, if we were to wait even several days.
    It was midnight when Wiley’s Diner shuttered its windows, and locked its doors. The two cooks put the kitchen in order, and departed before the waitresses, who had still to vacuum the carpet and wipe down the tables. Working together quite as efficiently as ever, the three young women concluded their employment within the hour (having even refilled the salt and pepper shakers, and the ketchup bottles) and fled the diner as if from someplace evil and haunted. A single one of them, whose little blue nametag read Cassie, climbed into a barely-functioning Pontiac, while the remaining two clambered into an older-model Honda.
    The women hollered hurried goodbyes and goodnights to one other, and then proceeded