*Tap-tap-tap* echoed down the corridor. The sound moved right to left.

  The ambusher waited.

  When the footsteps faded, the brave hero cracked the kitchen door and peered out.

  *Clear,* he thought, and stepped into the hall.

  He didn’t make it ten paces before he ran into Re.

  “Still running from Pinky?” the scientist asked, laughing.

  “Morning to you too, Re. Breakfast is on the stove.” Harlan had no intention of discussing the croc.

  “You cannot run from reality forever,” Re said, lecturing.

  “Then give me my revolver back,” Harlan shot back. “I’ll sleep a lot better.”

  Re snorted.

  “Sure. I will just hand a revolver to an emotionally unstable teenager who wets himself at the sight of anything unfamiliar. For what? So you can put holes in Pinky? Or shoot yourself out of fear?”

  “I’m not a teenager!” Harlan flared. “And that’s exactly why I understand a wild beast is a wild beast, not a pet. In the Wildlands we got hit by a crocodile—Kel almost died from the venom! We barely put the thing down with four guns! You’re the one with a problem, you creepy Gramps. What happens if your… pet snaps? You’ll smack it with magic. And what am I supposed to do? Give me the revolver back.”

  His face went red. His hands shook a little.

  Re fell silent. He lifted an eyebrow—just for a second. Then he huffed.

  “First, furrodyle. Stop calling it a crocodile, you ignorant servant. It has lived here twenty years—noticeably longer than you—and it has not bitten anyone once. Second, no revolver inside the house. At most, I will allow it in the menagerie. Third…” Re looked him over. “You are still a pup. A real one. Live another forty years, then you earn the right to push your opinions around.”

  Harlan clenched his fists.

  The words came out before he could stop them.

  “Then teach me magic,” he blurted—and even startled himself.

  Re blinked.

  “What?”

  “Teach me magic,” Harlan repeated, harder.

  He stepped closer and met Re’s eyes.

  Re narrowed his gaze.

  “You learn magic at five or seven. You are too old. And you lack the theoretical base. It would be a waste of time.”

  “What? You called me a pup a minute ago, and now I’m old?” Harlan snapped. “You love saying you’re a scientist. Fine. Then teach me.”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t do a damn thing—like I thought.” Harlan held Re’s gaze. “Give me the gun back.”

  He said it calmly, slowly, pronouncing every word.

  Re weighed him with his eyes. Then he squinted, brows dropping, and hissed:

  “Well then… you want magic? You get magic.”

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out four strips of jerky.

  “But first—go feed Pinky.” He shoved the meat into Harlan’s hands.

  Then Re pivoted on his heel and marched away, muttering curses under his breath and something like, “You’ll get it, you’ll get it… first time your nose bleeds, you’ll calm right down…”

  ?

  Harlan stood in the corridor, four strips of jerky clenched in his hand.

  It didn’t smell like anything. Not even salt.

  He licked the edge to make sure. Spat immediately.

  *Made special for the croc. How sweet.* The thought came sharp. *If I get eaten along with this meat, I bet his main concern will be whether his favorite choked on a bone.*

  He moved forward slowly, listening.

  After that shouting match—and Re’s sudden agreement—silence pressed in. Even the background rumble from deep inside the house was gone. Harlan placed each step as quietly as he could.

  He pressed a shoulder to the doorframe and craned his neck just enough to see the main room.

  Empty by the fireplace. Only the blanket, kicked into a lump, suggested anyone had slept there.

  His fingers, clenched white around the jerky, finally loosened. He exhaled loud and straightened his back.

  *In the lab. Or in the menagerie,* he told himself. A perfect plan formed: walk up to the menagerie gate, toss the meat through, dust off his hands, report the job done. Clean work.

  He took a confident step down the corridor—and caught a soft rustle.

  Not footsteps. Not a growl.

  Just a sound like something big, heavy, and oddly soft shifting through space. Like someone dragging a massive sandbag across the floor.

  A head appeared from around the corner at the far end of the corridor.

  Huge. Covered in brown fur. A wide mouth, pulled slightly—as if in a smile.

  Pinky.

  The furrodyle stopped, blinked a yellow eye, and—like on command—wagged its tail in a friendly sweep. The soft fur along its back rippled. It plodded toward the human at an unhurried pace.

  Harlan turned to stone.

  His breath jammed in his chest.

  Re’s voice rang in his skull: *Feed Pinky.*

  “G-good… crocodile,” Harlan forced out—and flinched at himself. *What kind of ‘good,’ damn it?*

  Pinky seemed to ignore the compliment, or didn’t hear it. It kept coming, rumbling a low *Rffrrr?* It sounded like a genuine question.

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  Two meters away, it stopped, tail swishing. It tilted its head to one side.

  Harlan understood.

  It was waiting.

  His hands wouldn’t obey. His legs felt packed with wet sand. But he made himself move.

  Slowly, he lifted his right hand, holding a strip of jerky between two fingers as if it were a pinch of salt.

  Slow. Very slow.

  Pinky tracked every motion.

  When the meat reached arm’s length—Harlan had actually stretched his arm as far as it would go, nearly wrenching his shoulder—the furrodyle eased forward and cracked its jaws open.

  *Click.*

  Not a snapping bite. A careful, quiet movement. Pinky rose slightly onto its hind legs, took the treat without touching Harlan, and immediately began to chew with businesslike enthusiasm.

  Harlan lowered his hand and stepped back half a pace, swallowing hard.

  He didn’t move again until Pinky swallowed the first strip.

  *Three left,* reason reminded him, and he extended his hand again—this time a little faster.

  Three minutes and fourteen seconds later, by Harlan’s internal math, he had no meat left.

  Pinky stared at him hopefully, asking for more.

  It hit Harlan then: next to a nearly three-meter furrodyle, four tiny strips of jerky were nothing. *Candy. A joke.*

  “G-good… crocodile. Good,” Harlan repeated, and began to back away without turning his back.

  One step. Two.

  Then faster—quick little steps, sideways like a crab—until a doorframe pressed into his spine.

  The furrodyle followed him with its eyes, but didn’t rush him.

  Harlan opened a door while backing up, slipped inside backward, and only turned once the door was shut and bolted.

  He sagged against it. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  It was one of the empty rooms.

  He sat there for the next two hours.

  ?

  They met at lunch.

  Re walked into the kitchen and asked, immediately:

  “Where were you?”

  “Checking the utility rooms. Cooked lunch.” Harlan answered evenly.

  “You feed the furrodyle?” Re squinted at him from under his brow.

  “Yes, of course.” Harlan stirred something in the pot, unbothered. “It’s just a crocodile.”

  Re walked to the trash bin, opened it, and looked inside.

  “Looking for something?” Harlan asked.

  “The meat I gave you.” Re’s voice stayed flat. “Where did it go?”

  “I told you. I fed it to the crocodile. Ask him. You two have… an understanding.”

  Not a muscle in Harlan’s face moved. In the same calm tone, he asked the next question:

  “When is the first lesson?”

  “This evening. In the lab,” Re said darkly, sitting at the table. “Assuming Pinky confirms your story.”

  Harlan filled a bowl with soup, set it in front of Re, and asked:

  “He’s that big—does he really get full on that?”

  “What?” Re raised an eyebrow. “No, of course not. Jerky is a treat. I feed him properly every two days. He prefers freshly thawed monster meat. And he doesn’t care whether it’s venomous.”

  “And shouldn’t he sleep after he eats?” Harlan asked, trying to sound knowledgeable.

  “If you had read the book I gave you, you would know furrodyles are not reptiles. They just resemble lizards, which is why people named them that.” Re snorted and went back to his soup.

  *The book.*

  Harlan had forgotten it completely. He’d opened it weeks ago, got bored, and couldn’t force himself through three pages.

  Now the situation had changed. You had to know your enemy.

  *Tonight,* he promised himself. *I’m reading it.*

  Out loud he said, “Haven’t reached the furrodyles yet. I will.”

  They ate in silence, each in their own head.

  Re finished every last spoonful and placed his bowl in the sink himself.

  “When you’re done with the vegetables, go to the northern greenhouse,” he said. “Find a device about this size.” He showed it with his hands. “A dial display on top. Do not touch the plants. Walk up to each one, hold it ten centimeters from the stem or leaves, press the red button, and write down the reading. The plants have number tags.”

  “Understood,” Harlan said, without arguing.

  “When you’re done, bring the sheet to the lab. And make sure you haven’t eaten for a couple hours before that. We’ll practice.”

  “Practice what?”

  “Field control, of course. You decided you’re going to become a great operator of the Field at twenty-five.” Re’s mouth twitched. “Called yourself a yarg—pull the sled.”

  “Wait—what does food have to do with it?” Harlan asked, thrown off.

  “So you don’t puke all over my lab,” Re hissed.

  Then he stood and, as he left the kitchen, added in his normal voice:

  “Thanks for lunch. Not bad.”

  He was gone.

  Harlan stayed behind with the thought circling in his head, steady and sour.

  *Did I really need this?*