“Your ears are cold.”
“Cold?”
“Frigid. Like ice. You should wear a hat.”
“I guess,” he whispered, shrugging.
She frowned, watching his eyes. “What are you looking at?”
“Those.”
“What?”
“Those.” He pointed to the snow. At the paw-prints in the snow. “That was a squirrel.”
She squinted. “How can you be sure?” she questioned, tilting her head.
He shrugged. “Because it was a squirrel.”
She took in a breath, let it out, almost like a sigh. “Perry,” she whispered.
He said nothing. Looking to the paw-prints. Unblinking. His ears and cheeks were red.
“Perry, are you listening to me?”
He blinked. “Hmm?”
“Sometimes, I don’t understand you,” she confessed. “Actually, most of the time.”
He shrugged, biting his lip, looking to her. “I’m used to it,” he whispered back.
She sighed. Her breath could be seen in the cold air. She kissed his blushing cheek, gingerly.
“Annika,” he said.
“You’re freezing,” she told him.
“I like the burn.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. The cold burns. It’s ... exhilarating,” he breathed, breath turning to vapor.
“Well, I’m sure you won’t like frostbite ... when your ears fall off.” She got out a hat, reaching up and putting it over and on his head. Pulling the sides down over his ears, covering them.
He gave her a weak, shy smile.
“What are you thinking about?” she demanded. His mind was at a whirl. She could tell. “Huh?” she prodded, tilting her head.
Seven Months Earlier
“The arguments of science are inductive. You take a bunch of stuff, and you cobble it together. Now, there’s a kind of parallel between ... ”
Peregrine wasn’t paying full attention. He never did.
“Instead of saying an inductive argument is valid, we say it’s strong.”
Philosophy. He was in a philosophy class, in a small, white room with thirty other people. Students.
“Validity. You either got it, or you ain’t,” continued the instructor.
Peregrine looked down. He had a pen in his hand, a blue ink pen. He wasn’t doing anything with it. He was staring down at paper, blankly. Loose-leaf paper.
The instructor took a sip of coffee. “Any questions about that?”
Even if Peregrine had questions, he wouldn’t have raised his hand. Wouldn’t have asked.
“When I say I want your participation or discussion, I’m really serious about that. What would you say if someone told you that the entire universe doubled overnight. What kind of evidence would you know ... could support a claim like that?”
Peregrine scribbled with the pen. Scribbled in random cursive. It was Friday. Another Friday. Which mean another weekend. And that would lead to another week. How nasty.
“You fools! The Matrix doesn’t want you to know you’re in the Matrix!”
Peregrine blinked, looking up from his internal daze.
“Prove to me,” the instructor challenged, “That you’re not in the Matrix. Is it logically possible ... that we’re in the Matrix? Proof. Other than deja vu, which is a glitch, so they say ... in the Matrix.”
Peregrine frowned, looking back down. Scribbling. But listening. He was a good listener.
“Nobody knowingly, willingly, consciously believes in something they view to be false. We all have false beliefs in our system, but we don’t know which ones they are ... or they wouldn’t be our beliefs. We always think our beliefs our true, but they can’t all be.”
Peregrine bit his lip, thinking.
“Last night, I dreamt I took you all to the train station. You might think you’re a pumpkin. Maybe this isn’t chalk. Maybe it’s the tail of a squirrel. How do you know,” he demanded, looking to the students, “You’re not crazy?” There was a pause. “This is called the method of doubt.”
Later, after his classes, Peregrine returned to his room. A small, shared room, but his roommate wasn’t here right now. He was out. Peregrine was glad for that. It meant, for the moment, he wouldn’t have to be self-conscious. Wouldn’t have his nerves on edge.
He turned on his computer, yawned, and sat down. Feeling a bit mechanical. His eyes felt dull. I’m a mouse. I’m a clockwork mouse, he thought to himself. Timid. Solitary. No self-confidence. With nervous quirks and twitches.
The picture on the computer screen was that of a squirrel, head tilted, looking closely into the camera. Eating bird seed on a porch.
Peregrine smiled, and the smile faded. He accessed the internet. Found a chat room. Entered his name as FieldMouse.
He met someone he’d talked with before, one of the friends he’d made. They chatted.
Taggerung: hey!!
FieldMouse: *Smiles.* Hello.
Taggerung: how are you?
FieldMouse: I’m fine, I guess. I can’t complain. Or shouldn’t, rather. And you?
Taggerung: things are good
FieldMouse: *Nods.*
Taggerung: *nudges the mouse*
FieldMouse: *Nose and whiskers twitch.*
Taggerung: that’s so cute!
FieldMouse: *Blushes. Smiles. Twitches nose and whiskers.*
Tagggerung: aw
Peregrine took a drink of the blue sports drink he liked. Always had bottles of it. He poured it into a mug-like container, with ice. It stayed cold. He sipped.
[Shadow has entered.]
Shadow: ello, guys *peeks about*
Taggerung: hey!
FieldMouse: *Flits tail, in greeting.*
Shadow: oops, someone I know’s in another room ... later ...
[Shadow has left.]
Taggerung: guess we scared him away
FieldMouse: *Nods.*
Peregrine sipped from his drink again, glancing at the neon-green numbers on his boxy radio/alarm clock. He had to be at work in ten minutes.
Taggerung: what you been doin?
FieldMouse: Not much.
Taggerung: you gotta have something you did
FieldMouse: Well, I watched Mulholland Dr. Last night. A movie. It wasn’t as distrubing as they made it out to be, though. But I quite liked it. It’s good. Fire, Walk With Me was more powerful, though, and ... *Shrugs.*
Taggerung: I haven’t seen those films ... haven't heard of em
FieldMouse: I guess they’re obscure. I have obscure tastes.
Taggerung: you said you liked plushes and stuffed animals, you have all that Stitch stuff
FieldMouse: *Nods.*
Taggerung: don’t you ever get embarrassed? About what people say when they see you have all that? That you like all that ...
Peregrine bit his lip, looked to his desk. On the top shelf, sitting atop of the tightly-packed line of videos, were about ten or so Stitch plushes. Very cute. Very lovely. Blue. Oh, Stitch was gorgeous. Just gorgeous. Peregrine had other Stitch items scattered strategically around his desk. More was at home. And, atop the computer’s printer, there were other plushes. Mice. Squirrels. A rabbit. A kookaburra, an echidna. He gave them all names. Peregrine smiled softly at Ketchy, his flying squirrel. And he reached over to the shelf under the window and grabbed one of his bears. And held it and sighed as he turned back to the keyboard.
FieldMouse: No, I don’t get ... embarrassed. I’ve rather stopped caring what other people think of me.
Taggerung: *nods* that’s good, that you can be so comfortable with yourself
FieldMouse: *Nods.* Yeah ...
Peregrine kissed the bear’s furry head and cheek, softly, and then glanced to the clock again, and then typing again.
FieldMouse: I have to go. I wish I didn’t, but ... I gotta be at work soon. I’ll probably be back later ...
Taggerung: that’s okay
FieldMouse: Later ... *scurries to the exit*
“Where are the chopsticks?” asked a student.
“Um ... ”
“They’re normally on the top of that bar over there,” he said, pointing.
Peregrine, wearing his hat and apron, signifying that he was a student worker in the cafeteria, managed a response. “Well, today’s taco day.”
The student gave a belligerent, bewildered look.
“One normally doesn’t eat tacos with, uh, chopsticks.” Peregrine had been confronted by this student before. He was demanding. Last time, he had wanted lemons. Fresh lemons for his tea. Peregrine had coldly gone off to find some, taking his sweet time. Returning five minutes later and telling him slowly, “They’re a little sour today.”
“Well,” said the student, back in the present. “How do you eat your meat, then?” He shrugged. Like some kind of shifty interrogator.
“I don’t eat meat, so ... I wouldn’t. If I did, I would use a fork. Or my hands, if the meat was wrapped in some kind of bread. Really, the options are ... ” Out of the corner of his eye, Peregrine saw one of the advisors coming into view. He sighed, blinking, and then told the student, “But I’ll go look for some chopsticks. I’m sure they’re ... in back. Somewhere.”
The student nodded hurriedly, as is Peregrine were some kind of food slave. Which he was, really, working here. Not that it was a bad job. It wasn’t. But ... it was just a job. It was a task. Another task in a long line of tasks. And he plowed through it simply to reach the end of it. So he could recover for the next time. Or something. He wasn’t sure. Anyway ...
He couldn’t find the chopsticks, so he sort of sidled away into the dirty dish area, hoping the student would go away, or maybe pester someone else. He went to the carts of clean pots and pans and dishes, picked up several of the pans, and with arms full, began to carry them back to their proper places. After about ten minutes of back and forth carrying, he cleared the carts. The dishwashing line was still running, but they were only dealing with trays and cups and small plates and things right now, nothing that needed to be lugged. So, he ventured back into the cafeteria. The demanding student was gone. And the clock read 6 o’clock in the evening. He wouldn’t be out of here until close to 8 o’clock, so ... he nodded. Don’t look at the clock, he told himself. But ... no. No, just don’t look. Fine, he replied, looking around.
Peregrine walked around, hands clasped behind his back (as was his habit). He walked lightly, trying to move with elegance, carefully watching how he shifted his weight. He wondered what everyone thought of him. And then remembered that he didn’t care. Or wasn’t supposed to care. And, eyes seeing a piece of paper, he picked it up. It was folded. He frowned and squinted, opening it. It was a small piece of paper. A single fold. And, on it, a phrase written in pen:
There’s an armadillo on the Dixie Highway ...
“Perry?” Annika said, jarring him out of his memory.
“Hmm?” He breathed out, his nose red and running. He sniffed.
“Are you okay? What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” he told her, and he smiled shyly. Looking to the snow. “Let’s go listen to light jazz.”
“Jazz?” She squinted.
“And we’ll dance,” he whispered. He looked to her, smiling bashfully.
She smiled and laughed. And nodded. “Okay,” she whispered back.
He nodded. “Yeah,” he went.
“What station is this?”
“Um ... I don’t remember.”
“You’re the one who found it.”
“Well, I don’t normally listen,” he told her, “To the radio. Normally, I just use albums and ... stuff.”
She nodded, going to the radio. Peering at the dial. “80 something.”
“88 point 7,” he remembered. “The Fine Arts Society.”
“Mm,” she went, nodding. She tilted her head. She looked to him. “Never listened to them before. Too low on the dial.”
“Well ... you have now,” he said lamely.
She went back to him. They were at her house. In the living room. They were dancing to the light jazz, and they were drinking lemonade. Pink lemonade. Loaded with ice.
“You’re tense,” she told him.
“Am I?”
She nodded.
He shrugged again.
“Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Shrugging.”
“I can’t help it,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why can’t you help it?”
“It’s just ... nervous habit. You should know that by now,” he whispered to her. They were standing close. Swaying. Listening to the sound of trumpets. Bass. Piano. All those other jazz-type instruments. And, outside, the wind began to pick up. It was more than a breeze ...
Five Months Earlier
It was a turtle. A turtle was in the creek.
Peregrine eyed it from the bank, unable to fight back an uncontrollable smile as he watched it peddle-peddle and paddle-paddle through the water. Ambling. He wanted to catch it. He wanted to catch that turtle, bring it to the bank. Look in its eyes. He had seen turtles before, but none recently, and he had never caught one with his bare hands. He was getting older. He had to do it now. It had to be done now.
So, he inched to the water. Froze. Hesitated. And inched again. The water was about two or three feet deep in this part of the creek. Mostly clear. You could see to the bottom. It was a sunny, warm day. It was a still day. In the back of his mind, he wondered about leeches. You might get sucked on by leeches. Don’t do it, his mind pleaded. Shut up, he responded, frowning. And he plunged in. Laughing.
His eyes quickly darted and scanned around. His jump into the water and stirred up the mud, had alerted the turtle, and it was moving away. Where was it? Where was the turtle? There! It was there. Peregrine sloshed through the water, shoes and socks soaked, wet all over ... and bent down, plunging his hands and arms into the water. For so hot a day, and for not having rained in the last week, the water was cold. Quite cold. Amazing how cold. Refreshing, but ... it had a distinct chill about it.
The turtle moved like a lumbering thing, like a thing in slow motion. And when it emerged into clear water, Peregrine reached for it with both hands. Held to it. Let it go. The sensation of that slippery, mossy shell ... and the thrashing legs ... he let it go. Waited. Waddled. And tried to pick it up again. Oblivious to anything else. All that existed was the turtle and him. And he was going to say hello to the turtle, whether the turtle liked it or not. And the more the turtle tried to get away, the more driven and fierce Peregrine became in his pursuit, until he finally yelled at himself to just pick the damn thing up.
He did, and as soon as he had it out of the water, it whirled and thrashed. Like mad. Like dynamite unleashed. Peregrine nearly dropped it, but held tight. Trying to figure out what was going on. And then he realized ... it’s trying to bite me. Oh, my gosh, look at that mouth! It’s trying to bite me!
He wrestled it to the bank, pinning it down. The turtle’s long neck slithered out, coiled. Snap! Snap!
Peregrine stumbled back, plopping to his rump on the grass. Breathing hard and staring at the turtle. It was a snapping turtle.
Peregrine laughed, smiling giddily. Despite having come an inch from having his finger removed or broken ... he laughed. It was a snapping turtle. Would I have picked it up, he wondered, had I known? Probably not. But ...
The turtle glowered on the bank. Doing its best to look archaic and menacing. Peregrine’s hands fumbled about the grass for a stick. He found one, dangling it in front of the turtle. It’s neck coiled, as before, and it launched. Snap! Snap!
Peregrine let it have the stick. After a few seconds, it spat it out.
“Wow,” Peregrine whispered, sighing. He took another breath. Exhaled. Watching the turtle from a few feet away.
The turtle stood still. Glaring.
Peregrine glared back.
After about twenty minutes or so, Peregrine tried to pick it up and put it back into the water. Snap! Snap!
“Hey, don’t do that!” he yelled, almost bit. He let it go and frowned. And then tried to nudge it back in with the stick. It wouldn’t move. “Well, fine. Fine. I don’t care,” he said, a bit mad. He sighed. And then smiled. “Look, you’ll have to wade back in ... by yourself. It’s not like I’m gonna hurt you.”
The turtle said nothing. Did nothing.
“You’re like a demon or something.”
Nothing.
“You’re interesting, though. I’m glad I caught you.” He smiled, taking a breath. He looked to the trees. The leaves were moving in a breeze. But he hardly noticed. All he knew was that, somehow, there was motion. It didn’t matter why. When. Where. Simply, there was motion.
“Motion,” he whispered to himself, opening and closing his hands, looking at his palms. Stretching. He closed his eyes. “Motion.”
Eventually, he walked away and wriggled under the barb wire fence, cutting his leg in the process. He growled from his throat, grimacing. “Oh, well,” he said aloud, sighing as he looked at the cherry red gash, the sight of red muscle and blood. “What’s life without pain?” he whispered. He stood and looked around. He didn’t know.
When he got back to the house, he looked around. No one was in. Or no one was here. He wasn’t sure. They never told him where they were going. And when they did go places, they didn’t invite him. And he didn’t care, really. Only ... he did.
There was a note on the table. It read:
There’s an armadillo on the Dixie Highway ...
He froze. What did that mean? Where ... what did that mean? What ...
He took a step back, licking his dry lips. Swallowing. And taking a deep breath through the nose. It was the same kind of paper, the same color ink ... as the note he’d found two months before, back at school. And the same phrase. The same ... warning? Was it a warning?
He shook his head, eyes closed. And then opening them. Blinking. He took the piece of paper, folded it very neatly, and put it in his pocket. He would deal with it later. He was going to take a shower now. He looked down at his legs. He was covered in mud and creek-water. And he was still bleeding. He smiled, wondering if the turtle was still sunning on the bank. Still angry.
It was so easy to forget that, right now, out there ... there was an armadillo on the Dixie Highway. And who was to say it wasn’t coming his way?
“I said,” Annika repeated, back in the present. She prodded him. “I said maybe we should play a game.”
“A game?” he whispered. He blink-blinked, looked to her.
“I thought you liked games,” she said. Meeting his eyes.
“My family never played games. Neither did I.”
“You can play checkers, can’t you?” she asked.
He nodded.
“We’re playing checkers.”
“Red.”
“Really?”
“What?”
“You seem,” she told him, head at a tilt. She was giving him a suspicious, playful squint. “You seem the dark type. I thought you would’ve gone for black.”
“What do you mean ... I seem,” he stressed, “The dark type. We’ve known each other three months. Shouldn’t you know for certain?”
“Why do you have to turn everything into a contest, Perry?” she wondered. Brushing the hair from her eyes. “People who spend all their lives together ... they still learn new things about each other, you know. I’m not you. I can’t completely know you.”
“I’m not saying you need to.”
“Then stop trying to latch onto me.”
“Who’s latching?” he asked, shrugging, getting a bit heated.
She sighed. “Just stop getting on my case for not understanding your every emotion.”
He made a face, shaking his head.
“You’re red, then?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m red.”
“I’ll be black,” she said. She put her pieces on the board. He did the same. And she looked to him. “Who goes first?”
Three Months Earlier
“You go first.”
“I don’t golf. I mean ... well, I golfed when I was, like nine, but ... ”
“Then you’ve golfed.”
“Annika ... ”
“Go,” she stressed.
He took a breath, nodded, and held his club. Standing at the tee. And he swung. The ball went far, but it was haphazard. It didn’t follow a straight path.
“Not too bad,” she said, nodding at the horizon. Squinting.
“Whoever heard of golfing? Who golfs?”
“We do, apparently.”
“Because you’re making me.”
“Oh, I love to hear you complain. It really turns me on.”
“Does it?” he wondered.
She laughed, shaking her head. “My turn,” she said.
He bobbed his head at her. She laughed again. She took a breath, squared up, and started to swing.
“Oh, my gosh.”
“My stance is not that bad,” she said, stopping before she swung. “And you’re not supposed to talk when ... ”
“No, no. Look,” Peregrine said, nodding to the side of the course.
“What? Where?”
“There.”
“Perry ... ”
He growled a bit and went to her, gently guiding her gaze. “There,” he whispered.
She squinted. “What is it?” she whispered back.
He knew. He had never seen one, not in his entire life, but he knew. “That’s an armadillo.”
“In Indiana? In September?”
“I know what it is, Annika. I think I would know.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’re a nature freak. You’re gonna open a granola bar nature preserve.”
He shot her a nasty look. “Honestly, why did I even agree to this?”
“To the golfing? Or to the dating?”
“Both.”
“Cause you like me,” she teased, grinning.
He bit back his own smile, turning his attention back to the armadillo. It was crawling off. “It’s getting away,” he said. “Come on.”
“I haven’t swung yet.”
“We’re following it.”
“Perry ... ”
“We’re following it.”
She sighed. He had already bolted after the thing, so she dropped her club, shrugged, and jogged after him. It took her a minute to catch up to him, as he’d gone into the trees, and then come out again ... and wound up near the road. Annika panted and sighed as she stopped behind him. “Armadillos can’t move that fast, surely. The way you were moving ... ”
“I don’t think this is a simple armadillo.”
“No? It’s a complicated one?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“Thought it was an armadillo,” she muttered. “Thought you knew.”
“It’s an armadillo,” he stressed defensively. “But ... but there’s something ... I don’t know how to explain it. Look,” he said, nodding at the road. The armadillo was crossing the road.
“Why’s it doing that? To get to the other side,” she said quickly, answering her own question. She giggled. “Oh, sometimes, I really ... ”
“You’re not even funny,” he said darkly.
“Well, sorry,” she started, but he cut her off.
“Look at the road sign.”
“What of it?”
“Read it.”
“Dixie Highway.” Pause. “Since when is there a Dixie Highway in Indiana? We’re not the Heart of Dixie ... who’s,” she began, furrowing her brow, “The Heart of Dixie? Alabama? No, it’s Georgia. No ... ”
“That’s not the point,” Peregrine whispered.
“What is the point, Perry? Because I’m at a loss here.” She looked to him. Waited.
“There’s an armadillo on the Dixie Highway.”
“I will admit,” she began. “That’s a rather odd occurrence, but ... ”
“No, but it’s there,” he continued, whispering. “It’s there. An armadillo. On the Dixie Highway.”
“It better get off before any cars come.”
“You’re right,” Peregrine said, stepping into the road.
“Get out of the road,” she told him. And then realizing what he was gonna do, said, “You’re not touching that thing. You’re not picking it up.”
“You’re probably one of those girls,” he called back, “That screams at mice and toads.”
“Do not,” she objected.
“Yeah? How about I find a nice vole. How about ... ”
“Just shut up,” she told him, frowning. Watching him. She sighed, looking around. They were probably being watched. She looked back to Peregrine. “You know, I thought those things were only supposed to be in Texas.”
“They are.”
She watched as Peregrine got closer to the armadillo. And it tried to scurry away, like a little armored tank.
“It looks creepy,” Annika said, holding her arms around herself. It was a bit chilly out. “Ooh, don’t touch it. Perry, leave it alone. You’re scaring it.”
He sighed, rolling his eyes. “You don’t even know.”
“I know you’re being bizarre.” Pause. “Well, more bizarre than usual. And it’s freaking me out.”
“I’m supposed to find this,” was all he said.
“The armadillo? Says who?”
“There’s an armadillo,” he whispered, “On the Dixie Highway.”
Annika sighed and looked around again. She was sure they were being watched. And not in a benign way, either. But ... she felt some kind of cold feeling. Some kind of grey.
And, from out of nowhere, a silent motor. A silent, deadly motor.
“Perry, watch out!”
He twisted and turned out of the way. Just in time. A golf cart screeched to a stop on the road, sliding and turning. A leather-gloved occupant reached down, snatched the armadillo, which squirmed and twisted, and the driver of the cart floored it. Hit the gas. The cart screeched and sped off down the road, turning through a ditch. And cutting across the golf car.
“Man, that thing is fast!” said Annika. “Must run on a speedboat motor.”
“They took it! The armadillo,” Peregrine panted, back at her side. “They took it,” he said, shaking his head. Watching the cart go across the course. “Alright,” he whispered, and he was off at a sprint.
“Hey,” Annika exclaimed, watching him bolt. She started to follow him. “You’re never gonna catch them.”
“Annika, they stole that armadillo!”
“Like you were about to do?”
“I was rescuing it. And I still am,” he called, panting. Running.
She couldn’t keep up. She jogged to a stop. And went back to their tee. It was still unoccupied, so she took her swing. “Gonna make par this hole,” she whispered, picking up their things and lugging it up the fairway.
Ten minutes later, Peregrine ambled back. Looking miserable and dejected. Confused.
Annika sighed. “Come here,” she whispered. She sighed out, resting her head against his shoulder. And then she looked to his eyes. “You wanna tell me what the deal is?”
He explained.
“So, what, these notes ... they’re premonitions?”
“Or warnings,” he said, shrugging.
She made a face. “But that’s ... that’s ridiculous.”
“I know.”
She said nothing. “So, what, you think this is a conspiracy or something?”
“I don’t know, Annika,” he said testily. “All I know is that ... I need that armadillo. Those leather-gloved men have it, and ... for all I know, they’re gonna barbeque it. And you know I hate it when people eat meat.”
“Yeah, cause you’re so tolerant of other people’s tastes.”
“Just don’t eat cows,” he asked of her. “And don’t eat armadillos, okay?”
She smiled, biting her lip. And then laughed. Nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Okay.”
“You promise?” He put his forehead against hers.
She sighed. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I promise.”
“Your move.”
“What?”
“You’ve been zoning out all day. It’s your move,” she repeated, nodding at the board.
“Oh.” He nodded, put his hand on a piece. And moved it.
“Sure you wanna do that?”
“You’re not gonna intimidate me at checkers.”
“No?”
“No.”
She made her next move. Was within one move of jumping one of his pieces.
And there was a knock at the door.
“Knocks at doors ... almost as annoying as telephone rings. Almost,” muttered Peregrine.
“Who can that be?” Annika said as she stood.
“Oh, don’t say that,” he exclaimed, frowning.
“What?” she stopped, frowning herself. Looking to him.
“In the movies, whenever they say, ‘Oh, I wonder who it could be,’ after there’s a knock at the door, at night,” he told her. “When a character says that, ten seconds later, they open the door ... and there’s a serial strangler at the door. The perfect stranger.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m telling you ... ”
“Whatever. You watch too many movies.”
“Films. They’re called films.”
“There’s no room in your head,” she told him, moving for the door, “For reality and common sense, is your problem. You can’t distinguish,” she said, reaching for the door handle, “Between reality and ... ”
She opened the door.
“Fantasy,” she finished. Staring out the door. No one there. She looked down, gasped and stepped back, catching her breath. She put a hand over her heart.
“What?” Peregrine demanded, getting up. “I told you,” he warned. “I told you that ... ”
“No,” she whispered. “No, look.” She nodded down, at the steps of the door.
It was the armadillo.
Peregrine took a cautious step forward, peering down at it. Annika stood behind Peregrine.
“I hope I’m not intruding?” asked the armadillo, in a British accent.
