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It had been about two months since that first night with Abram. For a long while, what I felt most was a peculiar kind of emptiness, a sensation of a large hole in my spirit. When that image finally came to me fully, I realized exactly what it was that I was feeling, and it would frighten me all over again. Perhaps curiously, I had taken Abram's advice about the claw/fang thing that he had pulled from inside me that night, and it depended from a medium-weight gold chain around my neck. It was not as heavy as I had first thought; its weight came from the memory of what it was, what it had been. I did not wear it to bed, as I had a not necessarily irrational fear that it might try to strangle me in my sleep. During the day, wearing it outside of my shirt, I would sometimes touch it or grasp it in my forepaw, like a strange worry stone. I no longer felt any sensations from it, as if I expected it to be possessed as it had possessed me, but I did feel a sense of cautious wonder about it. Anyone who noticed it thought it might have been the tooth from a non-sapient shark, and one fellow wondered if it were a claw from a non-sapient polar bear (odd, since the thing is white, not black). I would smile and say nothing in particular to them. I found it interesting that none who asked about it wanted to touch it or examine it more closely. One may be fascinated by something that has an aura of danger to it, but few wish actually to test the theory.

Not long after that first night, Abram had welcomed me to his bed again, and on three further occasions, to cuddle, to talk, to sleep. It was what we both needed, I to overcome my sense of indebtedness for my rescue, he to have someone who accepted him for himself rather than merely as some exotic toy. He could not count the number of offers he had received from patrons who had watched him dance, from the sweetly adoring to the blatantly financial. With one of the latter, he had considered pressing solicitation charges, except that he knew it would never be processed; the fur in question had too many political connections, and the charge would disappear without even a ripple or rumor. Instead, the kitsune had conjured up (literally) a smartphone video of the solicitation and informed the fur that it could be sent to his wife, law partners, and political connections, or he could discreetly donate a large, anonymous cashier's check to a fund for the protection of non-sapient wildlife preserves. It was a good month for that charity and, since the fur couldn't put his name to it, neither could he claim it as a deduction on his income tax returns.

I had begun to meet the rest of Le Famile Menagerie, as the fox lovingly called them. Phil introduced me to his mate, the lioness Helena, who was not the least bit stingy with her hugs. I also met Markus and Micha, particularly interesting to me because the astonishingly beautiful golden-furred fox and the somewhat older raccoon were introduced as a couple. The emotions that I sensed from them were of a particularly strong bond, something bordering on mutual adoration, and I looked forward to learning more about their story.

Most interesting of all was Theo, a slender and well-formed gray tabby cat who, at first glance, appeared underage for such an establishment. He was the family's kit, and they all looked after him. The feline was no tease, but he was a hugger and very affectionate. I learned from Abram that Theo had been something of a rescue case. The family took him in when the kit was only 13, thrown out of a home by a tom and queen far more in love with religion than their only kit. Helena found him by the merest chance; she brought him in, and she and Phil gave him space to live and the means to grow and learn what a real family was like. He was never in any way used or abused, and everyone took an interest in helping the kit to continue his education until he had earned his GED at 17. He had grown into the youngest-looking 19 years I'd ever seen, and it was clear that he was happy and healthy in every way. I hoped to learn more of his story one day. As I was coming to realize, all of the family was made of stories, and I wanted to hear every one of them.

There finally came a night when Abram was not dancing, when he invited me to his rooms for a wonderful dinner and an evening and night of the sweetest sexuality I'd ever known. I had hesitated, for no other reason than fearing I would be inadequate for him. He beguiled me (without any magical assistance -- he had promised me that he would never use his magic upon me without my express permission) and, with only the merest coaxing on his part, we began, continued, and shared our ecstasy once for each of his three joyously-wagging tails. I think we both slept well that night. Upon waking, I promised not to expect such wonderment every time that we met and slept together. He said simply that "expect" was probably too strong a word, but that "anticipate" might work just as well. He then smiled and provided a waking-up that surprised me only in that I didn't think I could achieve another climax so soon after the previous night's exercises. He might not have used magic to accomplish it, but it was indeed magical.

On the fourth such evening, in the aftercare of our afterglow, I held Abram close to me, petting his headfur tenderly, reveling once more in his tenderness and deep affection. I said something to that effect, and I felt something shift. Perhaps it was the writer in me, or the Tarot reader, or the way that he had revealed to me his spirit as much as his body, but I felt the shift as if it were something physical. I pulled slightly away from him and, looking into his eyes, I could tell that he was aware of it as well.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to me, then smiled. "At least you don't have to reach into me and remove a demon."

"If you needed me to, I would." I nuzzled his muzzle with my own. "Shall we talk about it?"

"It's not a pretty story."

"That's not an answer, sweetfur." I smiled at him tenderly. "I'd never have dared to say that to anyone before."

He kissed me, chastely, warmly, licking at my chin as he pulled away from me. "It's about another lover, some years ago."

"It could be about a lover you have now, except that I know you're far more discreet than that."

Looking at me closely for just a few seconds, I saw him nod. "You're becoming yourself again, pup. Your heart is growing back to its original size now."

"Double-XL?" I quipped.

"Gargantuan."

I blushed a little, licking quickly at his nose. "Start with his name, or make one up for him."

He chuckled. "Wolf with a bone, eh?" When I nodded, he sighed softly. "I'll go put the kettle on. It's not a tale to be told in a bed that has shared so much love."

Neither of us dressed for the occasion which, not all that long ago, would have surprised me; my body image was not the fairest in any land, and Abram had been helping me to overcome that as well. He began his tale as he got everything ready for us. "I'd call him Ishmael, but he was hardly worthy of the name or the joke. For that matter, I could use his real name, as I imagine that he may be long gone by now. I won't change his species; for many reasons, his being a fox was very much a part of things. I suppose I could just call him Johnny."

"As in 'comes marching home again'?"

"More than you know. You're old enough to remember Vietnam."

"Sanitized Vietnam, yes." I tried to keep my teeth from grinding. "I tried to keep up with all of the truth that's spilled out over the years, but it got to be too much."

Abram nodded. "You truly do not want to know. What I know comes from the luxury of having years and ears. For the sake of this discussion, let's simply say that Johnny came home on a mental stretcher that took time for me to figure out. He went into the Army at 17."

"Drafted?"

"Enlisted." He turned toward me leaning back on his kitchen counter. "That alone should tell you something. He was fast, quiet, and vicious on the battlefield. That earned him some attention from the commanders of one of those squads that don't exist. His official papers would tell a tale of relatively mediocre postings, in locations neither 'cold' nor 'hot' in those days. The truth was rather different. You probably heard of a quaint little vacation spot called My Lai?"

I felt my eyes widen and my jaw drop before I managed to squeak out, "He was part of...?"

"No. Not officially, and I don't think he was there unofficially either. It was undertaken by two companies from two different battalions, by my information, and Johnny was not the type to play well with others. My Lai was the most publicized and most outrageous of such attacks, but it was far from the only one. The ones involving little Johnny were smaller, with each of the hamlets and sub-hamlets being destroyed in wholesale slaughters, usually at night, usually by the silence of a blade slitting the throats of those sleeping in the relative quiet of their huts and crudely-fashioned homes. My Lai was said to have just over 500 victims, all non-combatants. Johnny's number was, cumulatively, higher than that."

Swallowing, I said, "Busy little squad he belonged to."

"You don't understand. That wasn't a squad; he wasn't part of one. That was Johnny's total." Abram couldn't quite suppress the shudder that went through him and agitated his tails. "He told me that he kept a very careful count in his head. It was, to him, a matter of personal pride that he notched higher than those infamous companies of mere soldiers."

I started to gain my hindpaws, with the intention of going to Abram, to hug him, but he raised a forepaw to forestall me. "The tale only gets worse, Tristan; you'll need your strength to get through it."

The tea kettle whistled, drawing his attention away from me briefly. He warmed the teapot in proper British tradition, then made quick work of the rest of the preparations. Even as his forepaws flew, he spoke slowly. "He was there for five years, after only a dozen weeks of basic training. He did not want to come back, our young Johnny. He loved it there, 'in his element' as he had put it. Apparently, that phrase came from one of his evaluations, and he clung to it like a blessing or a three-word litany. The opinions about keeping him in the field were as disparate as they were plentiful. The activities of his non-existent squad were in danger of being discovered by the public; the activities were already well-known by the military, at all levels in-country and most back here in the States. This was during the time when 'the only good commie was a dead commie,' and every citizen of the country was assumed to be an enemy combatant. They were, therefore, slaughtered wholesale."

The kitsune brought over the entire set to the low table in front of the couch, then turned to hug me. Judging by his shaking, we both needed it. I had no magical words to whisper into his ear; instead, I murmured whatever gentle words I could muster. It seemed to have a sufficient effect upon him; after a few minutes, he gave me a squeeze and pulled quietly away with a gentle chuckle. "Just enough time for the tea to have steeped."

"They do say timing is everything." I would have helped him with the preparations, but the simple truth was that I still hadn't learned to do it properly, and I hadn't the desire to worry him further with my clumsiness. "Hoping that my timing isn't terrible after all..."

"It isn't." He prepared both cups the same way, as I'd told him how much I enjoyed his way of taking tea as well as his pampering. "Johnny was pulled out of the field and, at first, cooled his heels at a sort of halfway camp in-country. That lasted about a month. He had managed to become part of an underground bare-knuckles fighting ring. It was the only outlet for the brutality that his military overseers had so carefully groomed in him. There were no weapons allowed at these events, particularly not between the combatants. That didn't stop him from bloodletting, his own or his opponents. He was heavily favored in the betting pools, and therefore a profitable commodity; that was what prevented the higher-ups from discovering exactly how various non-coms were being severely wounded in non-combat situations."

Abram took a sip of his tea, and I thought it only polite that I did the same. I wasn't sure that I tasted it. "What got him back Stateside?"

"When the extent of his in-house bloodlust became more general knowledge, they started by putting him in the brig. Another inmate was strangled nearly to death against the bars of the cell. That landed him in psychiatric, first overseas, then Hawaii, then finally back here. He had been discharged from hospital for two weeks when I met him." The kitsune's smile did not quite reach his eyes. "You can imagine that I didn't know all this at first."

"What did you know first?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"That's a bad idea."

The young fox looked at me, something between wary and caught out. He was all of 22 or 23, at a rough guess, clad in an o.d. athletic shirt and dungarees -- a popular fashion with anyone who shopped the military surplus stores -- and nursing a bottle of cheap draft, which seemed to be the staple of this equally cheap wannabe tavern. Lean, fit, more likely to be genuinely military (or ex-military) than simply dressing on a small budget or making a backward protest against the war. He kept his fur clean enough for ordinary purposes, but sartorial excellence was not his forte. Neither was smiling, at least in this instance.

"What?" he asked, finally.

"Alcohol and antipsychotics. They don't play well together."

He glared at me, putting up a smirk as a shield. "You're crazy."

"I saw you take the pill a few minutes ago."

"I got a headache."

"Then take aspirin, not clozapine, especially not at that dosage level."

The look on his face changed again, back to that more feral expression of being caught. "Who sent you?"

"No one. I was gazing around the room, looking at everyone, letting myself wonder who they might be. The usual thing for bars like this one. When I got to you, I saw you take the pill." Before he could ask, I told him, "Yes, I could read the bottle label from that distance."

"Prove it!"

"Take out your tags; face toward you, close to your chest." I was still a few meters from him, and I kept my eyes on his. He took out the flat metal tags carefully; I read to him his name, rank, number, and even the ATHEIST label stamped into one of them -- upside-down and reversed.

At this point, he stood, not with grace so much as determination. "What's this got to do with you?"

"Just a general concern. A lot of furs coming back from Vietnam aren't getting the help that they need."

"I'm getting mine fine." His loud insistence was causing a few of the other patrons to worry about their proximity to the conversation. I wasn't worried for myself, but what they called "collateral damage" could be unfortunate indeed. It didn't take my preternatural abilities to know that he was working his way up to a boil.

I smiled easily at him. "Then you won't be needing my assistance. Good day, soldier."

Turning my back to him, I padded toward the exit at a moderate pace. As the meme would say, Don't try this at home. He wasn't likely to be calmed by anything I could do or say; my idea was, if he was spoiling for a fight, I wanted to make him take it away from the close quarters of the barroom. It would keep the other patrons safe, and it would give me room to maneuver. I was hoping my audacity might stir his curiosity more than his rancor.

Exiting the bar, I turned toward the alleyway. I wasn't spoiling for a fight myself; it just seemed prudent to maneuver toward an uncrowded location. I heard him calling after me, and he caught up to me near the mouth of the alley. I turned toward him before he could have the excuse to grab my arm. My goal was to give him every chance not to assault me. I kept my arms to my sides, standing as still as I could manage. As you know, I hide my tails in public; to him, I was simply another vulpine, in the early years of middle age, and therefore not likely to be much of a threat.

"Who are you?" he demanded of me.

"My name is Abram."

"I still wanna know who sent you."

"You can blame my presence in the bar on Mr. Budweiser. I sometimes crave his brew on a hot summer day."

The young fox shifted from one hindpaw to the other, agitated, surprisingly alert despite the combination of intoxicants. Ears pointed aggressively forward, tail bushy with adrenaline, he appeared to make an effort not to bunch his forepaws into fists. His eyes tracked me well, and he had focus, but I wasn't yet sure what upon. "They're keeping tabs on me."

"Who?"

"Army."

"Why?"

"Because I'm crazy." The rictus of a grin tried to be self-deprecating, but it didn't quite make it. "I don't think they wanted me to leave the hospital, but they had to kick me out, eventually. Gave me pills, appointments, told me to stay out of trouble."

"I'd have thought that to be good advice."

"They just wanna be sure of it. They watch me."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"You makin' fun of me?"

"No. You're clearly upset. You must have a reason."

"You a shrink?"

"Not professionally. I've counseled and consoled friends over the years."

He paused, seeming undecided on a response.

"Do you live nearby?" I held up a forestalling forepaw. "I only want to see that you get home all right."

"I'm not drunk."

"No, but you're pissed off and might want to take it out on someone. You want to go somewhere to cool it for a little while." I glanced to one side and jutted my chin in that direction. "Cop over there, lookin' to make trouble. Let's not give him a reason."

"Why not?" he grumbled lowly.

"Paperwork." I gestured generally around us. "Where to?"

He hesitated again.

"Johnny," I all but whispered, "you're a target, on your own. I'm older than you are, looking disgustingly presentable. I'll camouflage you 'til you get home. C'mon. Let's get out of here."

I didn't know it at the time, but I'd lucked into the right word: camouflage. That was enough to trigger his military training, appeal to the fighter side of him. He flashed a smile that others might think was actual friendship. "Sure," he said just a little more loudly. "I haven't shown you the new place yet. It's over this way. C'mon."

He continued a comparatively benign prattling, leading me down several streets, perhaps hoping that the cop would lose interest, perhaps hoping to get me turned around. This was some fifty years before everyone had a GPS in his pocket, but I didn't get to be my age without learning a few tricks. We ended up at a top-floor apartment in a building only a block or so from where we'd started. By the time we'd arrived, his attitude had softened considerably. I saw him get him get keys out of his pocket, and I prepared to make my farewells.

"You not coming in?"

"I wasn't sure that you wanted me to."

Hesitating just a moment, he said, "You got me calmed down out there. Not easy to do. Thanks."

"Seemed the right thing to do."

Again, a pause, and then: "Come in."

The apartment was a small one-bedroom affair that he had rented furnished, and it was painfully well-kept. I put this down to army training. Something told me not to mention it. He made use of the knob lock, the deadbolt, and the security chain before turning back to me. When he met my gaze, he flinched, glanced back at the door, then at me. "Habit," he said.

"I understand."

"Do you." There was no question in his voice, merely a sense of resignation.

"I try to."

He set his keys on a hook near the door, padded into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open. "You want anything?"

"Water would be good, thanks."

The sensation of a pause, then sounds of glass and more glass, the filling of something from the tap. He returned to the living room with two glasses of cold water in his forepaws. Handing one to me, he said, "I try to keep water bottles in the fridge. Luxury, I guess. Just tap water. Tastes better cold."

I accepted the glass with thanks and took a sip. "How are you feeling?"

A flash of anger passed over his face, but subdued, the shadow of a reflex, or perhaps "habit," as he had put it. By and large, his face had relaxed, ears calm, tail still and no longer bushy. "Please," he said softly. "Who sent you? What are you going to tell them?"

"No one sent me. I can't prove that, of course. I'm not part of the military; never have been. Too old for the draft, and I don't do well with being commanded."

"So if I tell you to sit down," he smirked, "you won't do it?"

"No. But if you invite me to sit down, I'd be glad to."

He compromised by gesturing at the sofa as he sat down in his armchair. I took it at face value and did my best to show a relaxed attitude. I wasn't afraid of him, or at least I wasn't afraid that I would be physically harmed by him. None of us is genuinely invulnerable, but I had my share of tricks to keep me safe enough. More than anything else, I felt drawn to help another vulpine, if I possibly could. What I knew of the Vietnam war, in those days, was bad enough; this fox was clearly another victim.

"I'm not good at small talk," he said.

"What about big talk?" I gestured gently to take the possible sting out of my comment. "I mean, do you have someone to talk to about what's going on with you?"

"You mean, like a shrink?"

"Like a friend."

"Not got a lot of them." His tail twitched softly, once, and he brought the glass up to try quenching his thirst. "I don't talk much."

"Do you want to?"

"Not good at it. Kinda thick." He tapped his forehead with his knuckles, offered a self-deprecating grin. "Can't talk about much."

"You're doing pretty well, so far. Maybe you just need a good topic."

"Like, why I'm crazy?"

I resisted the classic talk therapy trick of answering a question with a question, reflecting back with Are you crazy? He'd have been hearing that for a long time, and it would make him put up all the barriers he could muster.

"Tell me about what you want, what you enjoy, what gives you happiness."

He blinked, startled. It was clear that no one had asked this of him before, just as it was clear that he hadn't considered the idea until now. His eyes settled on nothing in particular, and I let him mull it over. When at last he spoke, his voice was soft in the still, warm room.

"I'm not sure what happiness is."

"There are a lot of definitions. Terms like 'self-esteem' and 'positive self-regard' are batted around the scientific communities these days."

"Shrinks."

"Mostly, yes." I smiled softly at him. "Doesn't sound like anything to do with everyday life, does it?"

He looked down at the bare floor, giving the sensation of reflection. "Not the kind of days I get, anyway."

"What kind are those?"

"Empty."

I nodded my head in sympathy. "Let's try another definition of 'happiness,' then. When do you feel things like contentment, purpose, security, accomplishment...?"

This got a response that I could not have known the source of, at the time. His head jerked up, and an expression came over his features that seemed comprised of several things at once: Pride, fear, contentment, loss, anger, exultation. It was a look that could be any one of those things or any combination of them. Mind you, this clarity comes from hindsight; even at the time, however, the one irrefutable thing I saw was the huge depth of his pain, his inner conflict, and how much he both hated and needed it.

After perhaps a half-dozen seconds of this intensely conflicted expression, his eyes regained their focus on my face, and the smile that he offered me was more genuine than I would have expected. "Something for me to think about." He leaned back in his chair, showing off many of the best attributes of his body, and the expression on his muzzle became slightly predatory. "I don't usually think that much."

"It's a habit I've cultivated in myself over the years." Despite the raising of my hackles, I still felt some responsibility toward the kit. "You look more relaxed."

"Feelin' it. Maybe I should go back to bed."

"Rest can be good for you."

"Maybe you could keep me company."

I did my best to make my smile companionable without implying anything further. "Do you want some help getting to sleep?"

"A little exercise helps with that." His grin was just short of toothy. "Interested?"

"I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"What's the problem?"

The situation bordered on the dangerous. I weighed the consequences of talking my way out of it versus trying to give him what he thought he wanted. I'm no prude; I've had my share of quickies and one-offs. It was that sense of responsibility that held me back. Even with as little as I knew about him, I felt sure that this fox hadn't been treated at all well, and I didn't want to add to that abuse. I thought that I could buy some time before committing myself.

"For one thing," I said, rising to my hindpaws, "it's a bad idea to get overheated, in this weather. Would you mind if I took my shirt off?"

"I'll join you," he said, stripping off his athletic shirt before I'd barely begun removing my own. His musculature was strong, just short of being chiseled. The creamy white fur of his chest and belly was dingey, with the lines of scars visible in several locations. It had been easy to smell his sweat, on this hot day; I began now to detect the dark sweetness of his musk adding into the mixture. The combination added to the sense of danger.

Smiling at him, I removed my shirt slowly. After I had taken it off entirely, he stood eagerly, wavering enough to reach out to me with clumsy paws. I caught him in my arms, and he laughed a little.

"Maybe I need some more beer after all."

"Let's get you laid down first. Maybe I'll fetch you one."

He grabbed my head and pulled me into a kiss, or what passed for one. I'd expected him to want to get on with things, but I'd hoped that he might make it into the bedroom first. As the legendary "first kiss" goes, it was on par with sloppy attempts by adolescent males who have learned nothing at all. I'm not trying to shame him, mind you; it merely reminded me that he wasn't entirely in his own mind. I hoped not. If this were one of his good kisses, our relationship was destined to end in a very few minutes.

I managed to respond enough to let him think that he was doing the right thing by me. When he pulled off of me, he grinned again, his eyes half-lidded with pride. "Mmm, good stuff. C'mon."

He led me to his bedroom, off a short hallway that led to a bathroom just beyond. His pawsteps were only a little uncertain, and I found myself unsure if my calculations were off, or if he had more stamina than I'd given him credit for. It would likely depend upon how long he'd been acclimating to the clozapine and how many beers he'd had before I'd arrived at the bar.

He got to the bed and fell on it, grinning up at me and starting to remove his shorts. I placed a forepaw gently to his chest and looked into his eyes. "We've got all the time you want, Johnny," I said softly.

"Army training," he snarked. "Maneuvers in double-time."

I continued looking into his eyes, if only to see if they were starting to cloud over or dilate. He was so hungry, so desperate, and in so much inner pain. I could see that much all too easily, although I knew that he couldn't. This was one more attempt to plaster over it, and I began to doubt my ability to help him. For now, I could do this much for him.

"No army here," I told him. "I'm definitely not army, and you don't want them here, right?"

The eyes changed as he hesitated. I'd struck another nerve, and it was too late to go back. Before he could speak, I reached inside him so very gently, lowering his blood pressure slightly, easing his breathing. I avoided anything to do with the pleasure centers of his brain; that would bring about the wrong reaction entirely and plant an association in his mind that I would not cultivate against his will. Magic has its own means of committing rape, and I would not do that.

"You still want that beer? I can go get it."

His hesitation now was due to the intoxicants being allowed to take hold. He looked up at me, some of his masks dropping away -- the aggression, the bravado, the paranoia, even some of his fear. His expression grew vulnerable, perhaps needy. "I don't..." he tried. He didn't have the vocabulary for what he needed to say.

Kneeling on the floor, I leaned over him on the bed and hugged him close. He threw his arms around me and squeezed tightly, the only language he could muster. I understood it. I held his bare chest to my own, fur to fur, the truest grounding, when it's allowed to be. He wanted sex; he needed comfort, but he couldn't ask for it. I gave it to him anyway.

Nothing magical or medical was needed, at this point. After perhaps a minute or so, his arms relaxed around me, and when I shifted to help place them to his sides, he didn't wake. I rose silently to my hindpaws and looked down at him, out like a light, his shorts askew, just shy of revealing his maleness in full. I found him beautiful and broken, needing to take as well as to give, conflicted, abandoned, and as much a casualty of war as those who had never come home.

I looked at my emotions as carefully as I could. Pity raised a paw, as did Empathy, as did my own Loneliness. Savior weighed in, as he was wont to do. Good old Horny wanted me to pull the shorts off entirely and get a really good look at what was being offered. Fear counseled caution, and Self-Interest tried to speak up in favor, but a good sharp look in his direction quieted him. I knew little of the fox himself; he had shown me his masks, not his Self... with the exception of that last moment before he slept. That is the time when everyone drops his mask, usually because there's no one else around to notice; even when there is, the other might not be paying attention.

I padded silently into the living room and put my shirt back on. I considered moving his shirt into a laundry hamper that I suspected was in his bedroom closet; it might be disorienting for him not to find it where he would be sure he'd left it. I left the water glasses as well.

A pencil hung from a string tacked onto the wall near the fridge, and a notepad on the countertop nearby -- grocery lists. I wasn't sure if that meant he was that sort of meticulous or if he was afraid the drugs would take his short-term memory away. I got a fresh sheet and used the pencil (clearly sharpened by a knife blade) to write down my name and phone number. This, I left on the otherwise empty kitchen table, conspicuous by its presence.

As I was leaving, I realized that I couldn't relock everything. I didn't want him to wake up to an unlocked door, making him worry that he'd been vulnerable for all that time. Taking the keys off the hook, I moved outside, fingered the thumb lock in the knob, and closed the door. I used the key to fasten the deadbolt, then bent to shove the keys under the door, sending them a good distance into the room. I didn't think anyone would try to get them, but it might show him that his trust in me would be well-placed. Nothing I could do about the security chain.

Back out on the street level, I took myself slowly back to my own home. Sights, sounds, smells of the neighborhood told me why he felt safe here. I filed them away in the back of my head for future consideration. The majority of my thoughts concerned themselves with the wisdom of my actions along with why my feelings about him were commingled so strongly with the images of blood.

...to be continued