At the long dinner table, Thomas sits with the "wolf pack" of the Grant family. Here and there, they're attended to by the slaves.

The slaves keep making eyes at Thomas, each time they serve him. If Thomas didn't have standards to uphold, he'd become wary of their lustful stares...

"You've been away a long time," Thomas's paternal aunt scolds him. "We thought maybe you was dead."

Thomas shrugs. "You didn't get my dog tags, did you? I know you didn't!" He pulls them out of his shirt, and shows them. "These never leave my chest, and haven't since the last time I left!"

"The politics here struggle, Thomas," another Grant man scolds him. "This estate needs more men to wrangle the slaves, women, and children."

Thomas scoffs. "This country needs protection, you know. We can't do that here. This estate might be close to the border, but it sure ain't there."

"And which country, or border is that? I don't mean to sound unpatriotic, but... When it comes to power projection, the CAU and the NAU are both the worst. And the Indians won't learn how to use firearms."

"Not my fault."

"This family has a future, Thomas. Without you, the Grant name will become a myth."

He scoffs. "Do you have any idea how many Grants there are in Missouri? Pretty sure their numbers are just as abundant in Arkansas. Have you heard? The Arkansawyers are applying to join the NAU..."

A slave attends to Thomas, with a piña colada; a new drink that the Puerto Ricans are trying. Alas, this is the desert; Thomas won't likely get caught in the rain out here...although flash floods are a common thing in Sonora.

All around, Thomas's relatives look down upon him, with shadowy eyes. Thomas tries the drink...and smiles. The slave giggles, and scurries off.

"I can see that your departure has not eroded your abominable relationship with the slaves."

"They're just humans. If you'd look into their eyes more often, you'd see that."

"We do NOT look our slaves in the eyes. We are gentry; they are degenerate!"

"Ah, well," Thomas smiles, while sipping his piña colada. "As gentry, we could sure as hell use some shutters on the windows that rattle less, when there's a desert storm."

"When you get your next summons," they demand, "we want you to trash it. Your family needs you."

"Sorry, guys." Thomas finishes his piña colada, and slides it across the table. His relatives try not to notice it. "California needs ACTUAL family more."

They'd all growl...if they were all lobos.

Outside, there are bull skulls, here and there. Around, a desert storm blows...and causes the shutters of the Grant estate to rattle.

Inside, there are mule deer heads, stuffed and mounted on the walls. Plaques, under their throats, say that a Grant man bagged and tagged them, a long time ago.

A lever-action rifle hangs on the wall, over the front door. It's one of the first in this region.

The slaves accommodate for Thomas, by depositing hot coals underneath his bedding. One of them kisses him goodnight, before making her departure.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather sleep outside on the ground, Mr. Thomas? You've been away awfully long."

Thomas blinks, as he phases into consciousness. "Oh, no thank you. I can manage. My men are right. I DO spend too much time out there."

"You're protecting a lot of people, by being out there. At least, I don't think you're out there too much. We miss you here, but... Society needs more men like you...if I may say so."

"Please do. You're just humans. One day, my men will see that, as I do."

She frowns. "I'm not so sure about that."

"I have faith. Their racist paternal genes are mine...and I can still see humanity in you, that my sire wouldn't."

She sighs. "Goodnight, Mr. Thomas."

The lamps are blown out. Thomas belches, turns over, and tries to sleep.

The slaves are right; this DOES feel strange, when he's used to sleeping outside on the ground... But as strong as that desert wind sounds, Thomas should be thankful that, for once, on this night, he won't end up inside a dust devil.

Outside, the ground goes through a transformation. Shadows rise from the cemetery, and from the ground in general...

In the pens, a billy goat tries to sleep. He can't seem to. None of the goats can...

From all around his resting body, goatsuckers land in his pen, and creep all around him. They mount his side, sink their jaws into him, and drain his bloodstream...

Across the front lawn, a black catfish crawls across the ground, with two strong front arms. His eyes glow.

Inside, Thomas tries to sleep. This is taking a while. He's just not used to contemporary bedding. Damn military life...

Earlier, Thomas had a tick sucking on him, between his chest muscle and his midriff. The blood mark is still there.

In the night, Thomas feels himself get bitten there. He gapes, and takes it. He thinks he can feel what it is...but he isn't sure. As cryptically as he can, he approaches the thing, with his hand...

He grabs it...and snaps its head off. It's furry, and feels like it's got grease in its fur... It also feels like it's got fins. Its claws feel creepy...

On his own, he lights a lamp. He dares not involve the slave in what he's found.

He holds the headless body of the creature before him, and examines it. It looks like a headless weasel. Its fur is like a sable's. Its got fins on its back, tail, and arms. Some of the fins have spines. There are venomous spurs on the vermin's back feet; Thomas is glad he didn't try to attack it there. Its claws are longer, and sharper, than a normal weasel's...

Thomas stands before a mirror, and takes off his shirt. Severed, the weasel's head, and fangs, still hang from between his chest muscle and midriff... It had ram horns. Its eyes, ears, and nose seemed VERY developed...as did its tubular blood-siphoning tongue...

This is big...and not to mention macabre. Thomas might need to get his coworkers, over at Ft. Stanford, involved...