The days were beginning to cool now. Fall was surely upon them as the daylight began to grow shorter, but it didn't stop the planes and other vehicles of Propwash Junction from taking every opportunity available to enjoy the rather fine weather the last few weeks. It wouldn't be long before things began to turn cold, so Dusty and the others spent most of their idle time outside, playing or lying in the sun.

Ripslinger had been somewhat quiet. Not exactly stand-offish or even melancholy, but just very reserved. No one pried, even Dusty, who had resigned that if the P-51 wasn't talking, there was no way he was going to get it out of him. So instead the smaller plane in turn gave him his space, just touching or nuzzling the checker-marked racer every so often, letting him know that he was there whenever the larger plane was ready, and although he didn't shun Dusty's affections or made any indication that they were unwanted, he didn't really return any of it.

Ripslinger still kept up his usual routines. Lazing about in his favorite spots, although seeming more contemplative than outright loafing, or indulging Dusty in a short game of sparring here and there, even if it was a little half-hearted. He continued coming to see Tom practice his snare or horn or the Marimba, but instead of his usual watchful interest, he more often laid down now, eyes closed as he just listened. More than a few times, especially during the last week, the boy had looked up from his playing to notice Ripslinger, nose and eyes lifted to the sky longingly at the sound of an airplane flying overhead. Dusty had also noticed that as calm and non-confrontational as the P-51 had been behaving lately, something was still definitely amiss with him. After a practice flight with Skipper, the little racer had watched in quiet, contemplating concern from the door frame to his hangar as Ripslinger chewed fervently into one of his tires.

It had taken an unusually long time, but eventually his self-inflicted injuries to the hydraulics and fuel lines in his wings had healed, and Dottie had cleared him with full function restored. The green and black plane had come to respect her skill and creative intuition as a mechanic. Having been in racing as long as he had, he knew what a good mechanic was. She was actually the first he really started interacting with aside from Dusty, despite having a rather short way with terrestrial vehicles as quite a few aircraft were prone to being. The Mustang preferred straightforward types like Dottie.

He had gained almost all of his weight back now, and was looking quite splendid again, and yet not once did he ever express any desire to take flight. Not since that escape attempt he'd made when he'd first been brought to Propwash Junction after what seemed like forever ago. Of course Dusty had always asked if Ripslinger wanted to accompany them on his and Skipper's flights, but he had always declined, and so after a while the issue was never bothered with again until now. The others in the group would watch him follow Dusty and Skipper out to the runway, but then he would hang back and just watch them take off. Why doesn't he just fly? Tom would think to himself. Dusty had been having the same concerns, and had expressed them to Dottie after Ripslinger's final full exam and weigh-in.

"I don't know, Dusty," the little blue forklift had said, "There is literally no medical reason that I can find for him not to be able to fly, but I do think that it would really do him some good. Whatever's holding him up, I think you should really try to encourage him to come out with you and Skipper."

And so the next day, Dusty asked, and of course, Ripslinger deflected immediately.

"Nah, I don't really feel like it today."

"Well sure you do," Dusty said, staying doggedly on the subject, "I see the way you look every time a plane flies over."

Ripslinger said nothing.

"Is it because of your injuries? Do you think maybe you're a little scared to go back up? I know it's been kind of a long while too..."

"I'm not scared!" he finally responded with his usual indignance, "It's just that I've been... You're all..." he trailed off, his voice quickly losing the power that it previously had. "I can't..."

"Yes you can," the smaller plane encouraged, "It'll be alright. Just follow us up, we'll be right there, right in front of you."

Ripslinger stared at him for a time, still looking skeptical, but nevertheless followed Dusty and Skipper, this time all the way onto the runway behind them. Everyone had held their breaths when, upon starting his engine, it only turned over for a few seconds before dying off, but then released them when his engine finally came roaring to life as his propellers span into a flickering blur on his second attempt. He revved it a few times, little white puffs and wisps of smoke emanating from his exhausts as the wash from his prop blades blew it away, eventually blowing clear after a short moment as they all got into position. Skipper was leading out front, then behind a little ways and off to the side was Dusty, followed the same by Ripslinger.

They began their takeoff. The bass-y muscle of Ripslinger's massive engine roared up stronger as he followed behind the Corsair and the smaller orange and white plane in front of him. From their position on the ground, those watching could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Everything sounded great, but then, when the checker-marked Mustang began to gain speed and momentum, that same chilling, distressing feeling from all that time ago, when he had tried to escape, permeated all throughout his body, even stronger than that last time. He pulled himself up sharply, swinging his nose over as he skidded to a stop, his landing gear shaking as he watched Dusty and Skipper go flying off into the skies. He'd barely made it a third of the way down the runway.

Despite this failure, Dusty had still remained hopeful. It was a start, and in spite of himself, Ripslinger tried again the next day. This time around he seemed to have just a little more confidence, fighting through his discretions as Tom and Clarice ran at either side of the runway to try to give him some more support. It seemed to work, and he quickly passed them up, but then as soon as his tail-gear began to lift from the ground, he again came to another abrupt stop, turning away from the runway and into the grass as the other two planes went soaring away.

"Okay," Dusty had said, still sounding chipper, "That's not bad; we're getting closer. We'll get it."

On the third attempt, everyone, terrestrial vehicles and humans alike, ran at either side of him, Tom with his jacket pulled over his head and out to the sides like wings. This time, Ripslinger had managed to actually get all three wheels off the ground, but was only airborne for precious several seconds before aborting and hopping back down again. Everyone looked on, sad and anxious, as he came to a stop, trembling hard. There were no more tries after that.

A somber air had hung over the entire group now in the following days. There wasn't a whole lot of talking amongst them, even. No one really knew what to do or to say. Life went on as usual, of course, but everyone's thoughts were troubled. Ripslinger, for his part, had acted as if nothing had changed, but his recent despondency continued. Currently, he was sat just outside of Dottie's hangar as Tom was at practice once again on his Marimba, the huge, checker-marked plane laying down with his frame turned slightly away from him as he listened, eyes staring ahead at nothing in particular.

Tom was somewhat of the same mind. He had never been one to dwell on things. Time doesn't stop for anyone. Not for him when he was sent to this dimension, losing his family, his friends, and whatever goals that he had gone through great pains trying to get himself set up for. And certainly not for the grand champion racer.

Mallets fluttering effortlessly over the keys, the boy continued his exercises. What does it help though? All this laying around? He was sure, as much as he had loved flying and anything to do with aviation back in his own reality, that he of course would never be able to properly relate to Ripslinger and how much of an added stress and frustration and anxiousness not being able to fly would bring to any aircraft. He had heard talk here and there in his wanderings, from machines, and even some other humans, that flying was an aircraft's soul. Tom stopped playing. He remembered Skipper, after a rather unsuccessful attempt at interaction with Ripslinger one day, warning him, albeit rather cryptically for the human's taste.

"You ought to be careful how you behave around him. You can't treat him like you would Dusty, or me. He's not like us. He's not like any of the other planes."

Well music was his soul, if it comes to that. Maybe he couldn't understand the P-51, with all his eccentricities, but Tom knew that Ripslinger understood music, and there was their common ground. He stepped away from the Marimba, sticks in hand, and approached the pensive, checker-marked Mustang. Ripslinger checked very slightly as he felt Toms presence enter his proximity and looked up. The boy said nothing, only held the mallets up to him. He already knew what he was being asked.

The unspoken exchange between man and machine found Ripslinger approaching in front of the Marimba while Tom dug around his little work area for some more mallets. As the human searched, Ripslinger looked intently at the (what did the kid call it?) idiophone in front of him. The keys were made of red rosewood, beautifully carved and preserved. Rip knew that rosewood was the best material for Marimbas, along with many other components of other instruments, but it just looked so damn good too. Now was the first time that Rip realized that this was actually a rather beautiful instrument.

Leaning down slightly, he tapped one of the keys with his propeller, being very careful not to damage the ten-grand instrument. From it came a wonderfully lush and beautiful sound, just like Ripslinger was expecting. However it seemed slightly… different than he was used to. Perhaps it was because of the make-up of his propeller blade, or maybe it was the fact that he was the one making the noise in a sort of subconscious way. He already heard thousands, if not tens of thousands, of notes played from this instrument, so what would he be expecting it to sound like if he played it himself? But lo and behold! It did sound different! After what felt like a mini-fortnight, Tom finally emerged from the organized chaos that was his work area.

"Here's a couple pair you can use," Tom said, placing said pairs on the Marimba. "Where are those bracers that you had when we…"

Tom trailed off, his mind flashing back to him and Ripslinger first playing the snare drum. He was getting those same, odd vibes again. There was a very slight whiff of the emotion at the proximity that confused the human. It was almost like… regret. Regret of what, he wasn't sure, but the feeling washed over Tom for a microsecond before Ripslinger returned back to his natural stoic expression. The question had apparently got through to the P-51, however, as he said, in a single word, "Sparky's."

After a quick run, Tom returned with the bracers from Sparky. In his impatience and eagerness however, and with a blatant disregard for his sense of self-preservation, Tom seemed forget his manners, and immediately reached up to adjust the bracers properly onto the huge plane's propeller blades. Ripslinger froze, sucking in a sharp, surprised breath through his intake, but otherwise made no move to reprimand the boy for his indiscretion like he had at other times. He only stared, eyes unblinking and focused on Tom's hands as they tightened the bracers down. Now, up this close, while Tom had already made the observation that Ripslinger's prob blades seemed to be unusually sharp early on, he noticed that they seemed to be made of a strong material that he wasn't familiar with, and there were also tiny little serrations in the edges of them. What?

And then he remembered what plane they belonged to. Uh oh. Now it was Tom's turn to freeze. But yet, he was still standing. He looked up at Ripslinger's face, and his brows quirked in confusion at the unwavering, almost bemused stare he was receiving.

"... Rip?"

The P-51 blinked with the slightest shake at the sound of his name being called.

"You okay?"

After drawing in a somewhat deep, quiet breath, carefully trying to sift through and formulate his response, Ripslinger spoke.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Tom looked at him a little harder.

"... You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Ripslinger answered with a little more usual edge to his tone.

This kid trusts way too freely, the Mustang thought to himself. What in the world did he possibly think he stood to gain from befriending the likes of him, let alone any of the others? He seemed to have at least some sense of what he had to lose. So why does he help him? Why help that which is utterly useless to you? He thought as he approached the Marimba.

"Because I care."

Ripslinger snorted lightly from his exhausts as his eyes shot up to Tom's face. It had been in response to their earlier exchange, but Ripslinger had thought at first that somehow the boy had been able to read his mind. He shook his body a bit in discomfort all the same. The human cleared his throat.

"Here, let's start with something simple…"

Then Ripslinger was taught the basics from Tom: Intervals, sticking, how to hit the marimba correctly, scales, and how to change the width of the sticks. Tom seemed satisfied with how much and how quickly Ripslinger had learned just within a few hours.

"Well, now that you learned all the basics, let's actually play something."

Running back to his little area, Tom grabbed what appeared to be a music stand, and with some sheet music on the top. Then, to Ripslinger's surprise, Tom stood on the opposite side of the marimba.

"What are you doing?" Ripslinger said to him with an annoyed look. "Have you been playing it wrong all along just to trick me and piss me off?"

"No," Tom snorted, "it's just what the music calls for. Here, let's start from the very top," Tom said, pointing to the very beginning. "You play Marimba 1, okay?"

"Already giving me first chair?" Ripslinger replied snarkily.

"Well, you're used to playing on that side at this point; plus I've memorized the entire piece from this side."

Yet another thing that surprised Ripslinger about Tom is that it seemed that he was almost preparing for this day, with every thing he said calculated perfectly. It was a little creepy, but also somewhat admirable at the same time how Tom was always trying so hard to read him. Looking at the top, he saw the first four bars of music. The writing just looked like Hieroglyphics to Ripslinger, as it had been so long since he read music, but those short, happier memories of his life were slowly being reactivated as he played the motif slowly, although in tempo. He seemed a little apprehensive at first, but each bar he seemed to gain more confidence.

"Nice job, Ripslinger. Pretty good for a first time," Tom said, clapping his hands. "Let's go into the next part, only this time I'm going to be playing along with you."

Ripslinger squinted at the next line, unused knowledge after so many, many years slowly coming back to him as he looked at it:

Rip started playing the motif, along with Tom in almost perfect unison, before Tom stopped the plane.

"You think you can shape that motif? Try interpreting it like you wrote it yourself," Tom suggested. "The listeners can feel that you know.."

Ripslinger was a little shocked that Tom was saying that like they were actually going to play in front of people at some point. Nevertheless, Rip shaped the motif, before both of them looked at each other, and shared a slight smile between them. Ripslinger suddenly felt a quickening, a rumbling up of energy inside of him as he started from the top again, and started to play through the entire piece with Tom.

Ripslinger is a natural at this thing… Tom thought to himself. Maybe I should try to transcribe Hungarian Rhapsody no. 2 for Marimba. That would probably be so much fun to play. Putting that thought into the back of his head for later, he continued on playing the song, his face scrunched in concentration.

To be honest, Ripslinger couldn't remember the last time he had so much fun. Not to mention those hands in front of him. The hands that were so delicate and flowing in their nature and know-how, but the same kind of hands that caused him so much pain, that had ruined him completely now. Beyond whatever hope of recovering and living a normal life he might have had before. Ripslinger stopped suddenly. Tom continued on for a good period of time, before finally looking up at Ripslinger and noticing that he had stilled.

"Rip? You okay?"

A single, lone tear fell down Ripslinger's fuselage, so big coming from the plane that it was audible as it hit the hangar floor. Tom had suddenly realized how much time had passed as he looked out the open doors to Dottie's hangar. The sun was starting to head low into the western side of the sky.

The boy came around to Ripslinger's side of the Marimba, and this time slowly reached up to remove the bracers from his propeller blades, oddly reminiscent of the end of that first day they had all met. Once they were off, Tom reached out again to lay his hand on the side of the plane's nose cone, again, just like that first day, Ripslinger tipped his nose up, backing away somewhat.

Tom tried again, going even slower this time as he stared Ripslinger straight in the eyes, trying to convey that he meant no harm while at the same time trying to gauge what the huge plane might do in reaction to his pressing. Ripslinger kept his own eyes on Tom's hand, staring unblinkingly, and almost imperceptibly, continued to reverse. Finally, when the P-51's patience wore out and his anxiety got the better of him, he went stiff in his landing gear and gave a harsh flutter from his engine that startled Tom into stillness, but the human's own patience was still strong.

"I thought you told Dusty you were going to try to get used to us," Tom griped, "us" meaning all humans.

"God, do you hear everything?" Ripslinger snapped back.

"Yes," Tom answered without missing a beat. "You're never going to get used to humans if you won't even let me touch you, and there's just going to be more and more of us," Tom informed. Perhaps if the Mustang were given a little control over the situation? "Here," the human continued, "Why don't you just come to me then? I won't even move."

Ripslinger didn't move himself at first, still reluctant to make any sort of contact. It's not like he didn't already know what people felt like. He knew what they felt like, and those experiences had all been negative. Unpleasant, even when he'd managed to get loose and exact some revenge on a few of his tormentors when held captive by the Cutters. He shuddered mentally.

But here was Tom, this young, skinny human, standing still with his arms out to his sides, as if offering himself up. He was naive, Ripslinger thought. He doesn't know any better. Not like the others. And yet here they all were anyway. There they all were after everything, supporting him and running by his sides to encourage him to fly, even though they themselves would never properly understand that kind of world. But then again, maybe that's why they all did it. He lowered his nose.

Maybe he could be happy here. Tom stood stock still as the green and black plane came very slowly forward, and with a touch barely there, touched the point of his nose cone into the center of his chest. Ripslinger had marked himself long ago as being incapable of any sort of attachment. He was broken somehow, he admitted it. Besides, was it all really worth the risk?

Tom had stayed true to his word, and made no attempt to touch Ripslinger as he continued to just sit with his nose lightly pressing into his chest. The big plane was slightly shocked to feel a soft, but strong, steady thumping of what he didn't know was the boy's heart, and wondered curiously if humans didn't have little engines in them too.

But after everything he'd been shown since being rescued and brought here, despite all his resistance, maybe it was worth it. Maybe he could allow himself to try again now. To love them, and allow them to love him.

The human watched as the checker-marked P-51 moved slightly down and to the right, keeping contact as he pressed the side of his nose against his ribs, sensitive nose cone feeling the little bumps of bones underneath the thinner skin there through his shirt.

But a person who loves is weak. Ripslinger had learned that lesson the hard way. The more you give, the more it controls you until you have lost yourself and everything you hold dear. They will do anything for their loved ones. They will die for them. He couldn't have that. Not for himself, and certainly not for Dusty or any of the others. He simply wasn't worth it.

Tom could feel the pull of the plane's breath. Hear it being taken in, rushing through his airways as he breathed at such close quarters. Ripslinger had not moved for a good few moments now, and for the life of him, Tom thought he felt some undercurrent of dissent, some sort of turmoil. He had no idea how or why he was feeling these things, but had the distinct feeling that they were coming from the green and black Mustang in front of him, and he was moved, in spite of himself, to bring one of his hands up and place it on Ripslinger's nose.

Old, long-suffering fear and doubt began to creep into the plane. No... Why couldn't he have this? He was happy. He was content here. But when Tom had brought his arm up, the dark, almost black material of his jacket had blinked out of the light, and for a split second Ripslinger saw a flash of red as a narrow, angular eye appeared in the sleeve. A hauntingly familiar, hissing rumble rolled up in his mind as his olive eyes widened in horror before he slammed them shut, blocking out the image. No!

"No such thing... No such thing..." a cold voice echoed.

"Rip?" Tom had called out to him, hearing nothing and now frozen in his movement when Ripslinger had flinched.

But the P-51 was oblivious to the boy as mean, cruel thoughts festered in his mind and began to consume him. That this was the best he could ever hope for. That this was as good as it was ever going to get. He wasn't capable of anything more. And because it will all be gone soon enough.

Leave... Everyone... They would all be taken from him. In the worst possible way. And he would he powerless to stop it, just like before. No... No, please... Happy... I'm... I'm so happy! There had to be a way! He had to keep this feeling. This strange place. He must protect it. Friends... He wouldn't let them be taken away from him again. He had to save them! Oh, Chrysler, help me!

"...Rip?"

Dusty had been alerted to the sounds of desperate shouting and what sounded like some sort of very unusual engine noise, and once rounding the corner to Dottie's hangar, he was immediately beset by the sight of Ripslinger pulling Tom up away from Clarice as she grasped the boy's hand, his left leg gripped in the Mustang's teeth.

"Ooh, for fuck's sake, no," Dusty breathed before diving forward, yelling, "Skipper!"

It had all happened in an instant. When Tom had finally placed his hand on Ripslinger, the green and black plane's nose had dropped down, pushing against him sideways as he went, and as Tom lost his balance and fell back, Ripslinger had caught him up by his leg. And it was odd. It wasn't actually painful, really. Just a massive amount of pressure as the checker-marked racer's sharp, conical rear teeth pierced through his jeans and sank into the top and bottom and his thigh and the lower part of his calf. Clarice, with her seemingly always impeccable timing, had been walking up. She gasped, jumping up and grabbing Tom around his torso as he was pulled bodily off the ground.

"Rip!" she shouted, "Rip, let go!"

At first Ripslinger had simply held Tom's leg in his mouth and didn't really move. The human was only vaguely aware, through shock and adrenaline, of the wet, warm feeling of blood starting to soak into his jeans now. But then when Clarice had grasped him a little tighter and started to try to pull him away from the P-51, Ripslinger had responded by tightening his own grip down like a vice and began to pull in the opposite direction. It was then that Tom had actually began to feel a deep, sharp pain with the added pressure.

"No, no..." he had said when he felt himself being pulled at either end, but panic had quickly run into his voice at the feeling of the bones in his legs starting to bend under the stress, "Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!"

Clarice had already halted her efforts by the time Tom had started to protest, letting the boy go completely except to keep a hold of his hand.

"I'm right here, Tom," she said, her voice forced and breathless with fear and anxiety. "It'll be okay. Don't panic."

Yeah, right, don't fucking panic, Tom thought even as he was more or less succeeding in outwardly holding himself down, but had yet still been too frightened to verbalize his feelings on the matter at the moment. Almost his whole leg was gripped in the jaws of a plane that could probably swallow him whole for crying out loud! He looked to Ripslinger's eyes, and found them just staring blankly ahead. There was something there though, that was certain, but what exactly, Tom couldn't place, but he found himself disturbed at what he saw. Like the lights were on, but nobody was home.

By that time the rest of the group were all there, but were all at a loss as to what to do to free their human friend without subjecting him to further injury. Tom had let go of Clarice's hand and had reached up and was holding himself up with his hands gripping into Ripslinger's propeller blades. He saw the green and black plane's expression turn slightly defensive with the addition of their other companions, and began to back away with him. Each of them, Dottie, Sparky, Chug, Clarice, Skipper, and Dusty were all slowly and quietly approaching from different angles, trying to sneak in and see if they couldn't distract Ripslinger and try to grab Tom, but the Mustang would always spot them before they could get close enough and yank the boy away from them almost possessively.

Terrible sounds were coming from Ripslinger's engine. A sound at which the other planes, both humans, and even the terrestrial vehicles, were greatly unnerved by. It was a sound they were sure that he shouldn't be able to make. Strangled, high-pitched squeaking and grinding in with his regular growling. A deep, latent sound. A desperate sound. A distress sound. Not at all all reflective of the situation or his behavior at the moment.

Tom was honestly doing very well through this, but even as he patted and rubbed the disturbed plane's nose with his other hand, speaking soothingly to him, the exhaustion and stress of fear and pain were taking their toll as he he fought to breathe deeply and keep himself steady. There was nothing more than he himself could do than that at the moment. Besides, if Ripslinger's goal was in fact to kill him than it would have happened within seconds of him grabbing him, but the way the checker-marked racer was behaving was like a dog trying to keep a favored toy from being taken from it, and the thought was not particularly comforting.

And try as they might, his friends just could not get him away. At least not without the use of force, which they had been avoiding due to the possibility of Ripslinger becoming more violent, but at this point there was no other option. If the crazed Mustang were to get it into his head to shake the boy for whatever reason, Tom was as good as done for.

They kept at it, changing their tactics and backing him toward Dusty's hangar now. Skipper split off from the group, covertly slipping away and around the back of it. After getting into position at the side of the hangar, he waited. Then, when they had Ripslinger where they wanted him, tail just a little ways from the open hangar doors, he struck.

Skipper, with a spryness that greatly belied his age and stature, darted out from the side of Dusty's hangar, heaved himself up over the back of the wary P-51, and pinned him down. Despite this sudden, jarring change in events, and although he growled a little more fiercely, Ripslinger did not act out any further, but yet would still not relinquish the boy.

"Hang on, Tom," Dusty was saying as both Dottie and Sparky had come back from the garage with some metal piping in each of their tines. "We're gonna get you out, don't worry."

Tom, now partially laying on the ground, nodded in weariness and strain as he grimaced and adjusted himself when Dottie came over to his side of Ripslinger's mouth.

"Just hold still," she said as both she and Sparky wedged the lengths of pipes between Ripslinger's teeth and began the effort to forcibly pry his jaws open.

And quite an effort it took. As both Dottie and Sparky worked, at first his grip only tightened down more, causing Tom to stifle down a pained yelp as the Mustang's teeth sank further into his flesh. With more urgency and all the strength they had, to the cacophony of desperate pleas and commands of, "Let him go, Rip! Let him go!", Ripslinger's engine had let out a strained, moaning rev as he finally opened his jaws and Tom was dragged clear by Clarice.

"Okay Skipper, help me," Dusty said tensely as the Corsair quickly left his position on top of Ripslinger and joined his younger Companion in pushing him back into Dusty's hangar.

Dusty stayed inside with Ripslinger, slamming the doors shut behind him. Shortly after he'd been shut away there finally came a harsh snarl like they were used to, but then not long after came a horrible, choked roar of anguish.

Skipper turned back from the hangar to assess how Tom was doing after being released. Clarice was beside him, squeezing his shoulder as she leaned in and spoke softly. He had actually been standing when the old Corsair had first looked over, but had soon collapsed, Clarice catching him and gentling his fall as she laid him back on the concrete ground. He was only able to lay there, sobbing for breath and in shock as the human girl pulled her switch blade from her tattered shorts and began to slice through the leg of his jeans to assess his injuries. As she peeled back the deep red, soaked-though fabric from him, the machines had all recoiled in horror. Deep puncture wounds gave them a clear view as to what humans looked like underneath their skin. A view of things that they didn't even have words for in their lexicon.

"Clarice... He... Tom..." Chug struggled to get out, deeply horrified and just as unable to speak as the others.

"It's alright," she said, although her voice shook, "It's not as bad as it could be. Come on, Sparky, help me get him in the truck, we need to get him to Des Moines. It's the most developed human settlement that's close."

Of course "close" was still nearly an hour and a half drive. As they all watched the Chevy pull away toward the edge of town, Dusty had come out of the hangar by himself, at first asking for both Dottie and Skipper, but then checking at the sight of the robin's egg blue classic diving away. Ripslinger only lay awkwardly on the sleeping mat now, listless and almost inert, as if traumatized.