One step forward and another. Bootheels click even though there's nothing for them to click on.

He bends, almost like a tree snapping in half with oddly slow and liquid grace -- and does anyone care? -- and plucks the compass from Patrick's hand like a mote from a kid's eye.

"Thankee-sai, little trailhand."

A wink at Patrick, and he straightens. "They call me plenty of things. And they say D is for many things. One more puzzle for you."