He awoke without moving, a trick one could learn if they bothered to spend the time. Without opening his eyes Leif listened, extending his awareness beyond the fuzziness still prevalent in his mind. The muzzy sensation cleared as he heard quiet conversation – then noticed a warmth covering himself.

Deciding it was safe, he continued opening his eyes, and discovered one of the blankets from the closet tucked around his form. Thunder boomed outside, an oddity given the time of year.

Rising, Leif folded the blanket over an arm, halving the length again and again to set the small square down. Agitated murmurs were coming from the kitchen, along with a very quiet sound of metal touching metal, as if one were trying to avoid making noise whilst handling objects that opposed such a view with their very nature. He'd done it enough times himself in his youth – not that such a time was too far before. He wasn't going gray yet, at least. Ranchers always went gray young.

'Getting vain,' his subconscious mocked. 'Those ladies have put you through enough stress to drive a saint to swear.'

Shaking off the lazy thinking, Leif took a step – then looked down. Socks were a standard garb in the house. Boots were removed at the door, or worn only on the hard surfaces, easy to clean. The den was such a place, a combination family room, meeting room and trophy display center – deer head were poised on walls, memories of past hunts and successful tutelage. But the floor was cool underfoot, shifting to cold where the fabric had worn through. But that wasn't the point.

He'd gone to sleep wearing boots. Hadn't he?

That thought too was shelved. This didn't matter. Finding out what was going on, did. It had been years since he'd awakened to the sound of voices in his own home, after dark.

Socks made for quiet movements, a benefit he decided. Ghosting through the halls brought memories back, of evading well-intentioned parental guidance. A half-smile came to his face, then banished as realization struck a coward's blow. 'I'm looking after these people. I'm the parent …?'

That was a disturbing thought.

Before the process could wind its way through his brain further, the quiet of the night interrupted. The velvet blackness, so different from the eye-searing glare in the supposed 'civilized' regions. Some places even dedicated their blinding illumination to visual displays, erasing the trillions of stars visible from the sky. 'Stars exist outside planetariums. Just one step on the porch and you can see the Andromeda galaxy, what's it called? Something thirty something? Finnish machine-pistol thirty – no. Too much of that on the mind. Nothing's going to happen. I'm safe here. No one would come out and … and ….

"Mi- milord?"

"Larsen?"

"Sir?"

Leif realized his feet hadn't stopped moving, carrying him in eyeshot of the kitchen. One pair of wide eyes looked at him, as if perceiving some apparition, while the other two pairs had an exasperated attitude.

"I'll be going!" Fanchon squeaked. Her odd choice in attire was gone, replaced by a far more sensible pair of jeans and stretchy, tight-fighting, t-shirt. "Sorry!"

Leif cast a glance at the clock, noting the temporal position. He shrugged. "Only going on nine. Take your time, miss."

The neko edged towards the doorway. "That's all right, I – I need to go."

Faint movement caught his attention, like the whiplash motion of a rattlesnake gliding through the underbrush. All his peripheral vision caught was some exchange between Aredhel and Roanette, and the centauride looking exasperated.

"Fanchon, it is fine. Please stay." Roanette gave Leif a look, begging him to follow along.

He considered objecting. There were reasons to do so – this was his home after all, had that not been clear? Invitations were made by Leif and Leif alone. Which might have been the centauride's point.

Leif made a snap decision, nodding at Roanette, then at Fanchon. "Feel free. Night's young."

Turning his back on the nervous cat-woman he caught another silent exchange, and ignored it. If the two wanted to keep secrets, they could keep them. Plotting behind someone's back wasn't their way, or so it seemed so far. Trustworthy they had been proven so far, and so he'd treat them until proven otherwise. 'Maybe I'm wrong, but …maybe not.'

He gave the matter a thought, and hesitated just a moment longer. "I'll be out late. Make yourselves at home."

Not waiting for a response, and feeling a touch self-conscious, Leif pulled a heavy jacket from the hook by the back door and exited the ranch house. He hesitated to relish the sensation of crisp October evening. As expected, the stars hung low in brilliant points – except for over Havre, the centaur settlement. From that direction Leif could hear heavy machinery working away, intense lighting diffusing into a blur that dulled the sky.

Enjoyment faded to horror. He looked up where once there'd been millions of stars. Now only the strongest remained visible while those of a more mediocre luminosity fought through the glare. But the greatest terror remained: the multitude of lesser lights had vanished.

'What have I done?' dismay ran through his head. Those stars, landmarks for over two decades, gone. 'Did I make a mistake?'

He looked the other direction, feeling a faint tremor of relief at the velvet blackness still intact. 'At least something's going right. Don't know what I'd do if everything went … urban.'

Hearing the house's back door open, Leif moved on, angling his steps to keep the most obstructions between the doors line-of-sight and himself. This put him in a path to the barn once more, and the welcoming committee of its equine inhabitants.

Most were content to continue slumbering, standing in place. Two were stretched out on the straw, suggesting they felt utter safety. It brought a smile to his face, their complete trust. It took time, time invested in maintaining their welfare, seeing to feeding and watering. Time that could've been spent elsewhere, repairing machines or researching new crops. A new seed had been released for the colder climates, reported to give better yields and withstand colder temperatures – but there were always drawbacks.

Leif slid the barn door shut, glad for the oiled wheels suspending its doughty weight. The horses stirred as he approached, his familiar smell lulling them back to slumber. Trying to deaden his footsteps was counterproductive – predators sneaked, not friends.

Reaching the ladder, he began to climb. The injury made lifting his left thigh an ordeal, but he made it. Up in the haymow rested his destination: a small set of barriers, made for the times that every practitioner of animal husbandry knew would occur. Sometimes a rancher needed to stay with his charges, whether it was due to foaling or sickness, and a few comforts went a long ways.

Old tarps, cracked with age, fractured at a touch. Flakes of dust peeled off, encrusted with time and constant exposure.

A bed, more of an advanced cot than true bed, revealed itself under the coverings. There was no mattress – anything so civilized as bedding would've become rife with mice and other vermin. But there was a sturdy canvas covering, which could be stuffed with straw. Heavy wool blankets, sealed in vacuum-tight bags provided the warmth that would be needed, and a decrepit light switch kindled a dim lightbulb into being.

Using fresh straw was a must. It smelled sweet, and carried no dust. Too, the older straw could poke like a knife, stabbing through fabric as if a bed of nails were its intended form. Leif countered that with a thick layer of tarp, doubled over inside the bag, and shoved more straw inside. Ten minutes of work forced the bag's edges into a plump shape, rustling against plasticized surfaces.

Leif flopped the vaguely oblong thing onto the wooden frame, shoving it into place. His leg twinged at the effort, but less than it had before. 'Good. Hate being laid up.'

Maybe that was why he got along so well with horses. Immobility was terrifying.

A faint whickering floated up to his ears, the sound of Morgan the quarter horse. 'Still don't know why Earl gave it such a doggone stupid name. A quarter horse, named Morgan.' A few thoughts followed that one. 'Still, better than the dang stupid names at the racetrack.'

The barn itself was pleasant, the heat from so many warm bodies raising its temperature to comfortable levels. Ventilation, key for any animal-storing building, kept fresh air moving through. In the rafters a pair of owls were pausing in their routine nocturnal hunt, large eyes peering down at the unexpected visitor.

'Sorry,' he sent an apologetic thought up at the pair. 'Know you just want to be left alone.'

A mental checklist ticked through his brain during the bedtime preparations. 'Horses fed. Dogs fed. Guests know their way around – should've left a note? Nah, they're big girls.' The multi-hundred pound centauride's mass flickered through his mind's eye. 'Yeah. They're adults … pretty sure. Even if they're teenager something, 'Red looks like one anyway.'

Keeping his thoughts off the very adult appearances of his guests, Leif sat down to take off his boots. A problem made itself evident very soon. It was a small one, as problems went, but still an issue.

The boots chosen at random were solid, tall constructs of thick leather and canvas. They were perfect for fall weather; warm, sturdy, waterproof to a certain degree. But what they weren't was flexible.

He tried reaching down to undo the laces. Fingertips brushed against the coarse fabric, until a stabbing pain forced him back. A silenced hiss almost betrayed the injury, but Leif couldn't stop himself from clapping a hand upon the affected limb, over the stitches.

Trying again, slower this time, he reached for his feet. Once again the pain grew too much, forcing him back to a seated position.

"Crap."

Going back to the house was out of the question – revealing weakness wasn't allowed. It had nothing to do with farm management, the individuals calling the place home, or some international cooperative effort. Showing injury wasn't allowed. Perhaps there was more in common with horses than he'd thought.

Closing his eyes, Leif counted backwards from ten. Frustration was temporary, blood pressure was for the rest of your life. Or so Doc Simmons kept saying.

'Maybe I shouldn't take a horse doctor's advice for myself?' he glanced down at the equines resting below. 'Eh. Think about it later.'

Giving up for the moment, Leif brushed off the worst bits of debris from his clothing, tossing schnitzels of dried hay to the floor. Here in the loft it was almost too warm, the combined heat from over half a dozen horses rising to collect where it could escape no further. It felt of comfort, of years past when it was his turn to watch gravid livestock.

For a moment, memories of the past swept before his eyes.

Sturdy lanterns, only one at a time to extend battery life, sat on the old orange crate. Alfalfa's sweet scent rested heavy in the air, bales of the stuff piled in readiness – not too much, for fear of causing stomach problems, but not too little either. A good book sat on the crate, keeping a block of wood company.

Tiny wood shavings curled into piles on the floor, unending hours of patient labor. Keen-edged tools glittered in the light, sharp enough to glide over hickory or slice divots in soft silver maple. This was his hobby, his passion. While nature took its course in the nearby pen under his watchful eye, nature reshaped under his hands.

The first work had been a wooden chain. Simple, time consuming, educational. The biggest trick was learning how to separate the links. But it worked, a chain made from wood, no glue, no fixatives.

His second was a model horse – which turned out horrible. Too much, too soon, too fast. The rump had extended too far over the hindquarters, and the tail looked like a series of toothpicks glued together. But the mane … that had looked perfect. Curling locks flowing over the broad back, tumbling down. A pity the rest of the head resembled a carrot with the mumps, but it was what it was.

Soon the family learned how well he could be alone, how tasks requiring focus during solitude were safe in Leif's hands. All farmers were good at that, but some were just a little better at it than others. It was a life he enjoyed.

Leif jerked, feeling the straw mattress bump against the back of his calves. Faint afterimages blinked out of existence, even a faint odor of the mint tea he'd once kept on the barn's pot-belly stove fading from memory.

'Hah. How long has that been gone?' he didn't look at the stove's former position. A square hole in the roof, covered by a chunk of shingle, matched four indentations in the floor. 'Only a few years ago. Kept meaning to get another, but they're hard to find now. Should do some research over winter, see what I can find.'

The straw poked, even through the canvas barrier, but nothing could stop a good night's sleep. 'Getting soft. Should try to toughen up a bit … but I don't really want to ….'

Old age. It was catching up to him. While bad, it was preferable to the alternative sin feared by country folk across the globe: laziness.

Less than five hundred feet away, the farmhouse sat warm and inviting. Lamplight spilled between thick curtains, etching sharp lines along the muddy ground. Each blade of grass stood out in bold relief under the quiet brilliance. Dead leaves lay where the wind had shoved their dry shapes, tangled amongst the turf. In time they'd be gathered once more by the capricious arms of neighboring breezes, but for now they lay in silence while heavy discussions took place within the ranch house.

Centaurs took pride in their appearance. Whether it was a warrior's braids made more complex through battle and marriage – not necessarily two different events – or the diplomat's glowing complexion, their efforts in maintaining high standards were legendary. Weaving skills had once played a role until the days of industrial machinery made the exercise unprofitable. But at one point the fine woven clothes made by a dutiful centauride bride were considered equal to the silken garments created by the spider-folk.

It could be wondered then, why Roanette Yidderman, one of the three most poised of Chiron Caleb Yidderman's daughters, wore such a plaid flannel shirt. Its cuffs were frayed, and the pockets bore tiny holes in the seams, not to mention the strained buttons that struggled to contain her figure. Yet she bore it with smug pride, rolling up the cuffs to reveal powerful forearms.

Aredhel sat at one side, sipping from a mug. "I believe it's safe to assume Larsen will not be returning tonight."

"Agreed," the centauride gave a glum nod. "He's not going out to The Place though, I may affirm."

"Truth." Aredhel lifted the mug once more, keen eyes peering through the steam to pin the neko as she almost succeeded in sidling away. "Fanchon. Sit."

A faint thump announced her obedience, along with a faint hiss of irritation. "You are not the Mistress, you know."

"Yet," the elf corrected. "Larsen gave you permission to stay, did he not? And you will abandon his invitation so soon?"

A faint bristling look could be seen around the cat woman's fur, rising and falling under the sweatshirt. "Dames, first time we did meet, he did not like. We –"

"Are forgiven." Roanette inserted gently. She tugged the flannel shirt down, forcing the topmost button to relinquish its tenuous grip on reality, widening the V-neck aspect. Knife-fast reflexes caught the errant object. "Lor – Leif is a kind man. He was surprised and badly shaken, I think. The world of liminals is very new to him."

"Och, ya." Aredhel's accent fell into a guttural tone. "Mutter sent updates, through the new tower. There are riots in France, and half the Middle East is trying to set up a Fatwa."

Fanchon blanched. "But- but- that's genocide!"

"Has it been not used against humans for centuries? It is politics," the elf shrugged. "Negotiation methodology is different there. Didn't you visit while you were in France?"

The neko pursed her lips. "I did. Dubai, Cairo, Tehran and Riyadh."

"I assume you worked at the hotels, but how much did you do outside? Or did you rely on the locals to do the footwork?" Aredhel pressed.

A faint snarl curled Fanchon's upper lip, revealing teeth humans would never grow naturally. It vanished as soon as it appeared, lost under an ocean of control. "You voyage wherever you wish. You can just cover up your ears with a chapeau, or hair. Nekos cannot do that."

"Could you not wear local clothing? I believe head coverings are traditional garb in the Middle East …?" Roanette looked interested.

"Not long," Fanchon reached up, stroking the edge of one triangular ear tip. "Our ears are very … how do you say? Délicat. En plus aussi, how could we hear if they were covered? Everything is muffled – I tried. It threw me off balance, everyone had to shout at me, and after ten minutes, it hurt."

"Oh." Aredhel frowned. "I did not think of that – ear placement."

"A true detriment in some places," Roanette agreed. Her own long ears twitched. "But I do sometimes envy your size. Centaurs are not easy to mistake for say, cosplayers."

Both the elf and the neko laughed. "That is the common thought, is it not?" Aredhel's smile. "In truth, how many of such ilk are there, even in a country so decadent as the United States? Less than a million, of a population near three hundred and thirty million? No. Furred paws and long ears are not easy to hide."

"But you can," the centauride grumped. A long-fingered hand clasped the tea cup. "I need to ride in a van, or use drones. There are no cute pieces of headwear or a few straps that can hide all of me."

This statement caused a definite silence as the other two women evaluated their companion's mass. Sharp glances traded information, lightning fast conversations taking place through the stillness. But the two seemed to agree, nodding assent.

"Oui," Fanchon admitted. "You, as the Westerners say, have us there."

A sad smile crossed Roanette's face. Then it lit up, contrary to its prior expression. "There's a pie cooling, I'll get us a few slices. This conversation needs pie."

Aredhel lurched out of the way as the centauride rose from the extended cushion, moving with surprising ease. "You're very familiar with this house, aren't you?"

"Of course," the dark-haired centaur called over her shoulder. "It's the first human house I've spent any amount of time in. There's so much space, plenty for a large family." Her voice faltered, the slower swishing of her tail emphasizing the changed tone. "Leif does not speak of it very often. I believe he is lonely."

"Pft. If only such were the truth." Aredhel's cheeks puffed out an exasperated breath. "Leif Larsen is the single most stubborn, bullheaded, independent human male I've ever met."

Fanchon tucked both feet under herself, leaning on the table with both elbows. "How do you mean?"

"You read the reports, correct?" Aredhel waited until the neko nodded. "They do not speak half the truth. Larsen is clever, and happy to be alone. Any other male would leap at the chance for the attentions of women half as beautiful as we, but he treats us as if our presence is a necessary chore."

The cat woman gave a timid shrug. "It is not so surprising, here in America. In France, we were more businesslike about such things. Coming to arrangements did not take so long, but then it is a different culture, as you said."

Roanette backed into view, wheeling around to show a large pie, surrounded by a dish of ice cream and slices of cheese. "I was not certain which you would prefer, Leif has appreciated both, but …."

"Cheese and, is this apple pie?" Fanchon's delicate nose winkled over the pastry.

Aredhel groaned. "Centaurs are obsessed with apples. Or carrots. I believed it a stereotype, until I met the Queen of apple greed." Her voice sank, soft as a light breeze. "She's sharing it with you, that's a mark of respect you know."

"Of course it is," Roanette's long ears swiveled as if in amused disapproval. "Miss Kissasen, I mean, Fanchon. You are here. Were circumstances otherwise, I would assume your position in the connubial arrangement, in the matrimonial sense, assured."

The sound of forks stopped. Aredhel looked up, frowning. "You don't believe he will … how do the young people say it, take the harem route?"

Roanette shook her head. "The culture in this country is opposed to such a thing in the main. There are good reasons for it, although in the future it may change. Leif is very traditional – he attends church as often as he can, pays his bills on time, and works hard that he may not fall into debt. It is a large portion of why his land is so profitable, and why the Program desired to work with him." Her voice sank, as her shoulder slumped. "The qualities for good judgement and care are the same qualities that prevent him from accepting all of us in the way we may wish. It is his culture yes, but it is also him."

Aredhel frowned. "There is still a good chance he will. But that is not an issue for now. We need to discuss the broader sense. Elves have moved in, and established a base within Havre. Our Embassy is ready for deployment in two weeks."

"Bien. Good." Fanchon leaned back into the chair, curling in a way few human spines could withstand. "The Neko are established as well. Our ambassador will wish to give a token of thanks for your assistance, but we can have a festival soon enough."

"Festival?" Raonette's ears stood straight up. "That is a good idea. Thanksgiving is coming soon here, late November I believe. It is a popular time for harvest celebrations."

Three pairs of eyes exchanged significant looks. Aredhel spoke for them. "I'll make a few calls."

Roanette smiled. "I'll arrange a place in the gymnasium, and tell my father. Fanchon, can you look into decorations too?"

Triangular ears at full attention, the cat woman nodded. "There are local customs we should investigate as well. Carry in's, they are called?"

"Potluck," Roanette corrected. "It's a term found more in the western side of the continent. Like soda, instead of pop. Imagine, so many dialects? It is no wonder their universities have so many English majors. It takes an army to decide what is spoken here."

"Um," Aredhel paused. "Nein. I don't think it works quite like that …."

Laughter rippled around the table, joined in by the elf as she caught on to the centauride's smirk. "Right. Fine, have it your way. By the by," her expression turned innocent. "Did you see the recording I saved? The one with Larsen screaming at the cattle?"

Confused headshakes answered her. Aredhel focused on Roanette, still smiling. "Are you sure? I remember watching it, the part where Larsen is riding a horse and yells at a stampede? And it listens? It was rather exciting, wouldn't you say?"

Roanette blushed. "Well, it does have its points, I would say."

"Exactly. Now, not to change the subject, but I've noticed a few articles of Leif's clothing to be missing. Would you happen to be interested in perhaps finding a copy of that video, in exchange for … shall we call it re-routed, partially used apparel?"

Another burst of laughter, started by Fanchon this time circled the table. The room seemed to glow at its presence, a warm color on the old, polished surfaces. It had been many years since such a gathering had graced its halls. Some things were never forgotten, and the entire house seemed to grow brighter as the night wore on.

[break]

Out in the barn, Leif enjoyed the blissful sensation of half-asleep, yet not awake. Only the working class could appreciate such a thing in its true depth of emotion, in his opinion.

Scuffing of boots caught his attention, drawing him from the quiet drowsiness into full alert status. 'Now what? Half-octopus men from Mars, visiting me for moonshine? That era's over, get to town if you want some beer!'

More scuffling, the sound of smooth-soled shoes on dusty gravel, drifted from below. The horses whickered, not ready to give up their comfortable positions, but wary – Leif opted to follow their example. Ten thousand generations of instincts weren't always right, but counting them wrong lead to trouble more times than not.

"Larsen doing better?"

He grew still. Hearing one's own name often did that to a person. Why was Wesson meeting someone in a barn? There were better meeting places available pretty much anywhere else. But, it was close to the house, sheltered, and built Ford tough. Or at least, as tough as the vehicles once were.

"Healing up fast. Something he's eating, or maybe he's not that human. Background checks came out clean."

Leif rolled his eyes, safe where no one could see. Of course he was human. The entire country was full of humans, why else would a place as far away from civilization be needed as a stomping grounds?

"Did you get me the profile on his neighbors? Knudtsen?"

"Yeah. All there. You want a team on him?"

"Don't bother," Wesson's voice was dry. "Doesn't look like much on the files. If he's the same guy though, he won't appreciate guests as much as Larsen."

A note of surprise interjected itself in the second individual's voice. "Larsen was … welcoming?"

"We surprised him. Bad miscalculation on my part," Wesson admitted. "But we're working through it. At the start, he wouldn't let anyone into his house. Put in a moratorium on surveillance equipment inside his house."

"Only in America," the other voice chuckled. "You sure you don't want a team on Knudtsen? He might need an eye."

Wesson snorted. "If he's the same guy that I think he is, you wouldn't ask that. The man was a legend in the Maquis, could go anywhere, reach anyone. Why he decided to retire out in the middle nowhere's a mystery, but one we will not solve. We good?"

"Yeah." The first voice acquiesced. "Don't want to poke the bear. I mean, Larsen went barmy over serving girls. What would Knudtsen do?"

A moment of silence stretched further, little movements downstairs just audible. One of the horses chose the moment to rise, thudding hooves bearing its half-ton weight against the ground. After another few heartbeats, the first voice cleared its throat. "He wouldn't do anything too bad, right?"

"I'm thinking," Wesson sounded contemplative. "So far all I can come up with is punji sticks, those painting traps the Nazi's used, poisoned chocolate, land mines, darts, pitfalls, bouncing Betty's …" his voice petered out. "Just … just don't do it. Okay, Allen?"

"Right. Well I'll kip out here. No sense antagonizing the host. Did you get a count on visitors for tomorrow?"

"A dozen or so. Getting ready for the official meet and greet later. I told Larsen but he might not have understood, so I'll go over it again tomorrow."

"Sir. Can't help but admit a little jealousy though."

The government man's voice turned curious. "Oh? He just got shot the other day, had his life turned upside down, is being given more attention in the past few days than he's had in the past decade …?"

"And right now," the voice shifted around the barn, closer to the center. "He is in the house suffering the attentions of three very interested, attractive young women. And if he wanted, I'd bet the lamia in the basement wouldn't say no either."

Leif's eyes hurt from the rolling action needed to adequately portray his opinion on the matter. 'Perhaps I misjudged Wesson. Didn't think he'd respect Gramps privacy that much.'

Creaking alerted him to the fact of an individual climbing the ladder to the loft. For a moment, Leif considered retreating further back. Then the potential of using the pitchfork resting against the near wall crossed his mind. Finally, he opted to simply lay back and watch as the pointed tips of a male neko rose above the loft's floor, and turn into the shape of one of the guardians he'd seen during Zakapenko's housing events.

The neko was shaking his head, muttering under his breath. Given his weight, diminutive height, and position, it sounded like a boy just past puberty grumbling into an oatmeal container.

All his noisemaking stopped as he caught sight of Leif lounging on the straw tick, pupils growing wide. "S-s-sir?"

Leif jerked a thumb towards the house. "Women."

It was rather satisfying, he thought, to see a look of commiseration, surprise and panic all compete for space on the neko's face. It coalesced into disbelief. "You had no trouble sleeping there this afternoon."

"Different." Leif considered the statement. "Old fashioned."

Allen pulled himself into a full-body shrug. "In this time, you are likely to be called sexist. Racist, perhaps."

A brief chuckle reverberated through Leif's chest. It was funny what people thought.

"But I believe a better term would be chivalrous." The cat-man finished, giving a small grin. "No wonder the centaurs adore you."

His chuckle turned into a groan. "They're young. Smart. They'll figure themselves out in no time."

The smile grew wider, like a small crescent moon. "You agreed to make Lady Yidderman your partner. That is for life, you realize."

Leif started counting prime numbers in his head. "She's a pretty filly. She'll find someone better than a rancher out in the middle of nowhere."

"She chose you." Allen responded simply. Moving to one side, he unfurled a ground tarp, pulling a sleeping bag from behind a hay bale. "The next choice is yours, Lord Larsen."

A deeper groan pulled itself into Leif's thoracic cavity. 'Don't need this. Need sleep. Gonna be a long day tomorrow … a dozen more folks? What's next, mermaids?'

Sudden thoughts about the reconstructed river coursed through his memory. He winced. 'I'm not getting back to normal anytime soon, am I?'

A/N: Merry Christmas! Will have another chapter out for New Year, but what's the best time of the year without a little gift here and there? Enjoy!