Jimmy Holden saw him coming. It was like one of those dreams he'd had
where he was unable to move, his muscles frozen, as some unknown horror
stalked him. It could only end in a terrifying fall through cold space
towards a tremendous lurch against the bedsprings that brought little
comfort until his pounding heart came back to normal. But this was no
dream; it was a known horror that stalked him, and it could not end as
a dream ends. It was reality.

The horror was a close friend turned animal, and the end was more
horrible because Jimmy Holden, like all other five-year-olds, had
absolutely no understanding nor accurate grasp of the concept called
_death_. He continued to whimper even though he realized that his fright
was pointing him out to his enemy. And yet he had no real grasp of the
concept _enemy_. He knew about pain; he had been hurt. But only by falls,
simple misadventures, the needles of inoculation administered by his
surgeon mother, a paddling for mischief by his engineer father.

But whatever unknown fate was coming was going to be worse than "hurt."
It was frightful.

Then fate, assisted by Brennan's own act of trying to obliterate any
possible evidence by fire, attracted a savior. The approaching car
stopped on the road above and a voice called out, "Hello, down there!"

Brennan could not refuse to answer; his own car was in plain sight by the
shattered retaining fence. He growled under his breath, but he called
back, "Hello, the road! Go get the police!"

"Can we help?"