They beat them. Impossibly, truly, and completely. Jack lay in the dark of his private confinement cell trying to figure it out. He recalled little of the fight, save that Goliath had had him on the ground and was throwing blow after blow in his face (Jack winced, remembering, and gently touched the painful swellings on his face). and then all of a sudden it was Goliath on the ground, not moving at all, and there were a whole lot of people crowded around, all trying to help Jack up, dust him off, shout in his ear. Something about Spot.

There was a faint knock on the door, and Jack grunted, too sore and too exhausted to move his lips. The viewing slot in the door opened, letting in a little stream of light that fell on Jack's face. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, a face took shape in the slit.

"Jack? Hey. It's me, Mike."

"Mike, hey." The words came out in a slur, and it hurt to speak. He wondered vaguely if his jaw was broken. "What time is it?"

"I dunno. We just finished supper though."

Supper. Jack realized suddenly that he was ravenously hungry, and his mouth began watering so profusely that he had to swallow before he spoke. "Wadja bring me, then?"

"Not much; I couldn't carry the soup, but I brought some bread."

Jack hauled himself to his feet, suppressing the groan that rose to his lips at the pain, and limped toward the door to put his hand through the slot. "Give it here."

Mike poked the three stale rolls through, and watched as Jack attacked them. "You don't look so good."

"I feel fine." This was a lie, but Jack never admitted infirmity when he could help it. "How's Spot? Have you seen him?"

"Yeah. He's right next door to ya. He ain't woken up yet. I left him some food. He's pretty beat up, but he's breathin'."

"They ain't taken him to the infirmary?"

"Conlon? Nah."

"Good." In the Refuge, the infirmary was only a waystation on the way to the graveyard.

"I dunno about Stomp 'n Goliath, though; I think they might be headed to the infimary after what Spot done to them," Mike speculated.

"That bad?"

"Don't you remember?"

"Not much."

"It was amazin'. They had you both on the ground, and we all figured you was as good as dead. Then all of a sudden Conlon gives this yell, real loud, nearly broke the windows, and he kicks Stomp right in the nuts and punches him like a hundred times, and Stomp falls over and lies real still. It was like real prizefighters. Then Conlon whips out the sling shot and hurls one at Goliath, who's just about t'kill you good and dead- then it's over, and Stomp 'n' Goliath both just layin' there, bleedin' real bad. You never saw so much blood in your life. It was amazin'. He's so little, you know? And then all of a sudden, wham!"

"Yeah. I know. Hey.when he wakes up, tell him hey for me, okay?"

"Sure, Jack. So long. Chin up."

"Chin up."

The flap closed, and Jack was again left alone to ponder what he had just learned. So little Spot had saved his life. The feeling this thought produced in Jack was an odd one- he writhed at the idea of being obligated to anyone in the world, feeling somehow that it made him less his own man.

But it was nice to have a friend.