Who knows where Nev came from. Maybe he was watching from some hidden place, as I had done before. Or maybe he knew somehow what was happening at the Pahpocket. The children said he spoke the language of the wind, and it told him things no one else could understand.

Quite suddenly, he was lunging toward Jacques, shouting, "No! No!"

He literally flung himself through the air. I had already launched myself in Jacques' direction, too. I fell short, tumbling into the wind-blown dirt. Nev did not. He hit Jacques broadside, knocking him off his feet. But he was an instant too late. The massive rock had already left Jacques' hands. There was a hollow popping sound. I felt a sharp pain somewhere behind my eyes. I watched as the porous tufa of our guardian shattered, the anguished head leaving the obscene body, the body severed from the legs and their heavy shackles, in a spray of pale dust and inexplicable, brilliant light. Grief pierced me like a spear. I swear, I heard Nimitseahpah roar. I hear him roaring still, on nights when the wind blows into this valley, and I can never tell whether it is the sound of jubilation or of pain.

Fresh meat available at sanctioned outlets has become steadily scarcer, lower in quality, and higher in cost as a result of corporate raiding, government deficits, and climate trauma. It is therefore recommended that these outlets be avoided if possible. While high-quality edible rodents can be obtained at established black markets, the process is generally time consuming and expensive. One remedy is to purchase them directly from the trappers.

In my own neighborhood, enterprising waifs wander from door to door offering fresh rodents of many varieties, and prime rats in particular. It is true that the quality of these rodents varies, and care must be exercised in selecting them. But the knowledgeable cook can count on these suppliers quite confidently, and the prices are often unbeatable. I myself dealt with one young trapper for many months last year who obviously knew a great deal about the habits of rats and could thus provide a steady supply of extraordinarily high-quality meat. He arrived at my door promptly three mornings a week until, through some unfortunate oversight, he succumbed to typhus. It is clear, however, that a good deal of time and expense can be saved by dealing directly with trappers, and they are frequently the only reliable source of better rats.

There was a sound on the stairs. Not an ordinary sound like Father's footsteps or a mouse. No. This was a sound like the dragging of a gunny sack filled with things both hard and soft, slither, thud, slither, thud, coming closer and closer to my room. Something scratched at the door. Then the handle of the doorknob rattled. I could not help but look. I saw the knob turn.
"Hester, Hester." It was the bubbling, honeyed voice of Avery's corpse.
"Get away!" I screamed.
"Jesus, help me. Please. " This was followed by a heavy thump and a pitiful scrabbling against the wood. I pictured Avery there, having dragged himself up the stairs on his elbows because he had only one leg. Blind. Doing everything by feel, or by following the scent of his sister.
I felt as if a heavy board with rocks upon it lay over my heart. My breath came in gasps. I could not imagine how I might help him. I could think only of how I might help myself. Knock him down the stairs? He would just come back up. Cut off his head? It would probably still implore me.
It was then that Mr. Ursari's words came back to me. "Know that if God wants him, it is best not to stand in the way."