She heard giggles. "People laugh," she told him. Then she heard a whoop.

"No, little one," he said. "Those are hyenas calling to one another in the tall grass, but don't be afraid. The plane started this little fire. See? I feed it." He gave it a piece of oily rag. Trash was all around them—the wreckage of the plane—twisted metal and upended seats. The cries of passengers, terrible screams from people she could not see, frightened her.

"Do not cry." He could only move one arm, but he held her eyes with his. "My people say the souls of those the hyenas eat go into the hyenas and are happy, wild, free."

He held out a stone doll, black, like his skin. Papa had once told her about a stone doll. He called it an "ancestor doll," which was very old, older than she was, older than anyone alive today. The doll was made by the long-ago Africans, the dark ones, ones like the man who now talked to her. In his open palm, the doll looked small, only inches long.

"This doll needs a friend," he said, encouraging her with his eyes.

She looked at the doll. "I cannot take your ancestor doll, sir," she said. "Papa would forbid it."

The man sighed. "Child, I am dying. She has chosen you. The line must be unbroken. You cannot understand, but the doll will keep you safe after I am gone. I was going to give this to my daughter, but she has gone on ahead." In a soft voice, he continued, "Can you not hear her call to me, 'Ababa, Ababa’?"

The girl guessed the words meant "Papa," but she could hear nothing above the cries of the hurt ones, the ones the hyenas found.

She looked into the man's eyes. Like the doll, he seemed to stare at some faraway place. His eyes turned toward her again, and he smiled, his teeth white in the firelight. He whispered. The girl leaned forward, straining to hear him, "Your doll's name is Chiyembekezo—Hope. Oh, child, what you will see, what you will hear—do not be afraid. It is a good thing." The man took a ragged breath. "I go," he said. His arm lowered; his fingers relaxed. The girl leaned forward and caught the doll before it hit the earth. She looked back at his face, but he had gone still, like the doll. Great loneliness filled her.

In her small, white palm, the doll looked bigger. She could almost curl her fingers about its round, black belly. The doll's smooth head poked from under her thumb; white shell eyes stared past her ear.

She gathered small pieces of trash, as the man had, adding a bit at a time to keep the fire burning. For uncounted minutes, she heard nothing more. The hyenas must have left. She felt so alone. Time passed. A small breeze picked up and the flames danced. The only sounds she heard were the creak of settling metal and the whisper of shifting trash. The night grew dead quiet. Her head nodded, and she slept.

Still clutching the stone doll, she stood in the faint light from the dying embers of her fire, but she did not need the fire's light to see. Huge above her in the hot, dark, African sky, the yellow moon cast a glowing light. She smelled an animal smell, not unpleasant but new to her. From out of the night, a cheetah padded soundlessly toward her, its long, spotted tail curved upward. As it lifted and then set down each forepaw, its shoulders bunched one at a time above its dropped head; it placed each back paw deliberately—the whole causing the big cat to strut as if it owned the ground on which it trod. When it caught the girl's scent, the cheetah lifted its neck and thrust its muzzle into the air. The moonlight foamed about its high-held head, illuminating the dark tear-streaks that descended both sides of its whiskered nose. Two half-grown cubs trailed behind. The black spots that covered all three animals seemed to jump across their pale fur.

The three stopped a few feet from her. The cubs dropped to their haunches, but the large cat stood its ground and looked with feral eyes into the girl's eyes: "She-cub, in your hands you carry the Mother of all Africa, one who has dominion over the two-footed, the four-footed, those who fly, and those who crawl upon the African earth. But you, She-cub, you are but a moment in the Mother's mind, and soon she will pass from you. All those you meet through her will forsake you, but we will not. We cheetah are her gift to you. No matter where you go, you need only call. We cheetah will come. You are cheetah now, my she-cub. Remember this."

The cheetah arched its back just like any cat, padded two steps forward, and breathed spicy cat-breath into her face. "While it is dark," it purred, "the slope-backs will come for you. Make the bright-bright jump and hold the Mother close. Remember this. Now, we do the scent dance. The ugly breathers scorn cheetah smell. You will be the one they cannot steal from us. Now, She-cub," it said, giving a furry headbutt to her bare calves, "hold the Mother high. We dance."

The silence was absolute. The moonlight foamed down. She lifted the black stone doll above her head. The cheetah chirped once; the two cubs joined in, purring continuously while wending their way about the girl. They rubbed their faces and bodies on her blue sweater, her corduroy jumper; they even passed their whiskery noses across the cheeks of her face and tangled hair. They pressed their spotted, furry heads under her bare feet, so she had to lift each foot one at a time and join the dance. When the dance was done, the purring ceased. The cheetahs drifted away, melting into the night, the mother cheetah first, the two cubs following, and disappeared as quietly as they had come.

Holding the doll to her chest, the girl awoke. She stirred the dying embers with a stick and added all the trash she could reach. The fire soon burned bright, giving off an acrid smell and roiling with black smoke. She coughed but curled up so close to the flames that they singed her eyelashes and caused her face to flush. "Now, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake . . .," she could keep her eyes open no longer. Exhaustion pulled her back into a deep, black sleep.

From a distance, she heard the juttering laugh of the spotted ones, the slope-backs. Within minutes, the pad of many paws and the panting of many mouths announced the arrival of the hyenas. They circled just outside the firelight. One, whose tread was heavier, approached, chanted the kill song, "Our jaws crush, our fangs shred, we devour all, both the living and the dead. We are the clan! Come, my brothers and sisters, my children, my ravenous ones. We take what we want. Watch me snatch this mouthful away from the bright-bright."

The girl caught the fetid breath of death as the creature opened its jaws and inhaled her scent. Suddenly, it gave a deep, guttural bark and jumped back, "What’s this? Cheetah stink? And something dark? Something old? A more powerful mother than I am protects this one. Fear not, my sweetlings, tastier morsels await elsewhere. We shall yet partake in the blood feast this night. We must away! Our jaws crush, our fangs shred, we devour all, both the living and the dead. We are the clan!"

The fire sank into glowing embers. One by one, embers died. The doll clasped to her chest, the girl slept on and dreamed of cheetahs running free in the night.

*     *     *
The trill of birdsong pierced the dawn stillness. From where she lay on the ground, the girl opened her eyes and watched as, just a few feet from her face, a small, yellow-winged bird hopped about pecking for tidbits among the trash. She had not expected the little yellow bird and its beautiful birdsong. She had expected vultures, but even an eleven-year-old girl knew that vultures do not sing.

She watched the yellow-winged bird hop about its birdy business. "Chk, chk, I eat!" the bird trilled. When it had hopped far enough away that she would not frighten it, she lifted her head and looked up at the sky. Just as she had feared, the vultures had arrived, their huge, feathery wings tracing endless circles in the white-hot African sky. The dark birds dropped down in ever-narrowing circles, until at last they made landfall in great awkward hops, clawed feet outstretched, naked heads seeking, curved beaks ready to rip and tear. One of the birds landed close to her. With white head sunk beneath dark shoulders, it turned and fixed a red eye on the girl. It spoke: "Hello, we are Death, come to make your acquaintance. All things come to us in the end, girl, even you, even you." It turned away. She had failed muster as food. An echo drifted back to her. "Faugh! The Mother protects her. Perhaps, later."

So much blood, so much death. The carrion eaters had found the crash site well ahead of any rescuers. Would there be rescuers? Who would come for an eleven-year-old girl of no importance? In answer, the faint image of a cigar smoking man in a safari hat rose into her mind, only to fade as quickly as it had come. She was a nobody, and all the dead who surrounded her were nobodies now, too. Understanding that the dead can neither be rescued nor make any complaint, she watched as the vultures, with their skinned heads now glistening red in the sunlight, pulled, jerked, and swallowed. She shuddered. So, the hyenas had not eaten everything, after all. She was afraid, but she knew these great birds were not likely to approach her, just as she knew why they did not sing. An old, African nanny had once told her, "The dark birds are summoned, dear child, not by the living, but by the newly dead, who do not feel, nor do they hear."

The vultures' feeding frenzy continued until they were startled by the roar of trucks arriving on the far side of the plane. With a loud flapping of wings, the dark birds lifted into the air for a moment, then settled back to earth, intent on their feast, not a moment to be lost.

The girl looked away and searched for the little yellow-winged bird. Just as if it had heard her call, it hopped back toward her, so bright against the piles of sodden trash. The bird stayed with her for only a moment more. "I fly! I fly!" it sang. She watched in dismay as the tiny creature, alarmed by the noise of engines and the shouts of men's voices, darted away from her into the sky, becoming just a yellow dot among the blue. For reasons she could not understand, the girl began to weep. Great, sobless tears slipped down her cheeks to soak the white collar of the blouse she wore beneath her blue jumper.

A gunshot rang out. The vultures quickly abandoned their feast, and with one rise and fall after another of their powerful wings they soared into the air, but they did not fly far away. As if tethered to the site by the stink of death, the birds hovered above, swooping in endless circles.

Voices and the crunch of heavy boots came close. The girl felt she could not deal with this new thing. They must let her be—let her be. With both hands, she pulled the stone doll to her heart, lifted her knees, and curled her body around the doll. She tried to get her eyes to stare into the distance in the way that the man’s eyes had stared just before he died. She let her eyes slide out of focus, finding it hard not to blink. She was a big, dead baby. Except that the vultures had not touched her, so she might be alive. She would let the approaching men decide. If she were dead, she resolved that her soul should rise into the air like the little yellow bird, and then, together ("We fly! We fly!"), they would fly away into the sky, forever.

Time passed. She dozed. She dreamed of riding on the backs of white-headed vultures, their huge wings flapping in her face, blood dripping from her fingernails. Voices came close. Her dream disappeared. The voices were almost on top of her. She opened her eyes. She could see two pairs of polished black boots; dark, knobby knees; and two sharply creased pairs of identical khaki shorts. Soldiers. She neither moved nor spoke.

"Look, how hyenas got to that one, Sir."

Had the hyenas got to her after all? Was she dead?

"That one was not hyenas, Lance-corporal."

"Tell that to the man whose face is eaten off." Then, fearing he had gone too far, he added, "Major, Sir." His voice sounded a bit off.

"That was vultures." There was a moment of silence. "You don’t have a weak gorge, do you, Lance-corporal?"

"No, Sir, but look here, Sir, hyena paw prints in the soft earth, and, oh, no—gods of my people—that woman’s arm has been . . . gnawed upon." He made a funny noise, took three quick steps, and vomited. He came back to stand beside the Major. "Sorry, Sir."

The Major continued as if nothing had happened. "The only things missing are the hyenas, themselves. They left much to the vultures. I wonder what scared the hyenas off. They must be on the far side of the reserve, by now."

The Lance-corporal could not help himself, "But, Sir," he persisted, as if his eyes had not seen what they had just seen, "Sir, hyenas do not eat live people."

"Oh, but they do, Lance-corporal. They do. It has been a bad dry season. A large female hyena and her clan raided a village near mine last week and carried away a child. It happens, and it has happened here, perhaps the same animals. Look here," the Major exclaimed, his attention drawn to something else, "is this a cheetah paw print? It is almost obliterated by the hyena paw prints. But no, it cannot be. Cheetahs are notoriously shy. A cheetah would have no reason to approach a crash site, and it would most certainly run from a clan of hungry hyenas."

"Should I get the official camera, Sir?"

"No. No documentation until we get the bodies out of here. Certain higher-ups are more concerned for the spotted hyenas than for the poor passengers on this plane. The white-headed vultures' numbers are dwindling. Both are big tourist attractions. You can be sure the truth of what happened here will never get out."

"How will they explain the condition of the bodies, Sir?"

"They will say the passengers died in the plane crash, as, I'm sure, most of them must have. In your report, you will testify to the same, if, one day, you wish to be promoted."

The Lance-corporal snapped a salute, all but clicking his heels together. "Yes, Sir, Major, Sir. I shall assign the body recovery detail, Sir."

"You do that. You can begin with this poor child—oh, gods, I think I know her. No, it can’t be." For the first time, the Major sounded disturbed. He talked as if he had a lump in his throat, a lump he could not swallow. He bent down to take a close look. "Is this Asia Jefferson?"

Asia—Asia Jefferson, that sounded like the name of a girl she once knew, a long time ago. But no, she was not a girl. She was a big, dead baby who stank like a cheetah and who clutched the Mother of all Africa to her heart.

*     *     *
The girl lay on her side directly at his feet—had he taken two steps more he would have stepped on her. Her body appeared unbroken. One blue-sweatered arm partly covered a rosy-cheeked face, and her white-blonde hair was mussed about her head. She looked angelic. At some point before she died, she must have pulled her knees to her chest, causing her blue corduroy jumper to ruck up past her pale knees. She was barefoot. Faint, blue veins traced the curve of the insteps of her oh-so-white feet. For some reason, that was what got to him—the perfect innocence of her small, bare feet. The Major made a sound, a noise that worked its way up from somewhere close to his heart. Just before he could embarrass himself before the Lance-corporal, the girl moved her arm and gave forth a violent sneeze.

"Ah-choo!"

The two soldiers jumped back in surprise. "She's alive!" they said, almost in unison. It might have been comical, had there been anyone to see.

*     *     *
So, she was alive.

She blinked and allowed her eyes to focus. She was no longer a frozen, curled-up baby, but a real girl. She straightened her legs. With a pang of guilt, she looked around at her only other companions—so still, so cold—the uncomplaining dead, who lay all around her, and who had done so throughout the darkest night of her life and throughout the bloodiest, red morning. Being dead was easy. Being alive was harder.

"What's this?" the Lance-corporal said in surprise as he noticed the stone doll. When he tried to take the doll from her, she screamed, just as if she were one of the hurt ones and the Lance-corporal a hungry hyena.

"Let her have it," the Major admonished. "Can't you guess what she has been through? What this experience has done to her?" His voice drifted down from somewhere above the girl's head. For just an instant, she was uncertain whether the Major spoke of the doll or of her. What had the doll been through? The thought made her dizzy.

The Lance-corporal sounded as if he wanted to spit, but was holding it back, "Sir, that doll looks old. It belongs to the African people, not to this . . . this . . . blue-eyed, blonde-headed Afrikaans child."

A feeling of oldness swept over the girl. Her bones felt as if they were melting. The feeling of wanting to sleep was overpowering.

"And so? So, what if she is Afrikaans? But she is not. I know this child. Her father is an American, a digger. He might give a reward for her return. I will see that you receive this reward."

She felt the Major's fingers press down on her wrist, and then the back of his hand on her forehead.

"Does this hurt?" he asked in a soft voice as he checked her arms and legs. "Besides," he continued, still talking to the Lance-corporal, "if the dead man gave the doll to her, she is its rightful owner. To separate them would bring bad juju."

"Yes, Sir."

"And Lance-corporal?"

"Sir?"

"The elders of my village say that the one who carries such a doll shall live or die by the doll's will. Are you sure you want the thing?"

The Major did not wait for the Lance-corporal to answer, but instead asked him, "How soon before we have radio reception?"

"Several hours before we are within range, Sir."

"You may see to the body detail, now, Lance-corporal. Thank goodness it was a small plane, only a twelve-seater. We would not have had room to recover all the bodies, otherwise."

"True, Sir." The Lance-corporal’s footsteps crunched away from them.

The Major's dark face overshadowed his boots as he bent down. He gathered both her and the doll into his uniformed arms. "Don't worry, Asia," the major whispered, "I am a friend of your father's. Did the dead man, there," he nodded toward her friend lying on the ground beside her, "give Chiyembekezo to you?"

On the heels of these words, memory flooded through her. Of course, that was her name, Asia. And then, she was engulfed with longing for Papa, his strong arms, his rough beard, his tobacco-laden breath. She thought about the last thing he had said to her. Africa took your mother. I won’t let it take you; you must go to school in America. Asia still cried in the night for Mama, and now Papa was sending Asia away. She had the Mother doll, now. Would Papa relent, or would he say she was too old for dolls?

She didn't want to talk, but the Major had asked her a question. "I don't know why the hyenas and the vultures didn’t eat us. They ate everyone else. My friend built me a fire and gave me his daughter's doll."

"From that poor man's living hand to your living hand," the Major said, his voice sounding as if it came from a great distance. "No one will dare to take the Mother from you, not until she is ready to go. If they do try, they will be sorry." And then, as if to himself, he said, "Oh, Ben Jefferson, my old friend, your daughter is the only survivor. The vultures did not touch her; the hyenas did not touch her; they did not touch her. How will I explain this to you? How?"

Again, Asia heard gunshots and she jumped in his arms.

"It's all right," the Major's voice soothed. "The gunshots are to scare away any vultures or hyenas that might still be about. You were lucky, Asia. You are safe now. We will take you to your father."

As the Major carried her toward his truck, Asia looked back over his shoulder, trying to see the face of the man who had kept her company throughout the dark night. He still lay on the ground in front of the ashes of the fire he had built for her. The strewn piles of refuse and overturned seats encircled his still form. In the heavy African air, smoke floated along the ground, making it difficult to see the man's face. She did not even know his name, but she would never forget his kind eyes. His head rested on his arms as if he were sleeping. Something about the way his arms were folded made him look peaceful. She hoped he was with his daughter.

Asia hugged the doll. It lay warm in her hands. She looked at the doll's hanging breasts, round belly, and pudgy legs. How Papa would love to see this doll. At least, she thought he would. He had told her more than once that certain ancient things should belong only to the African people and should never end up in the white man's museums. Yet here they both were, she and the black stone doll. Then, her eyes closed.

Some uncounted time later, a bump ended Asia's nap. She was buckled into the back seat of an open-sided military truck sailing over the savannah at a reckless speed. The plane crash lay far behind. The Lance-corporal was driving. Asia studied the side of his face and decided she was not afraid of him anymore. As the Major had set her down in the back seat, she had briefly awakened to find the Lance-corporal standing there, smiling at her as he handed her an orange Quanta and a small bag of peanuts. He had not looked at the doll. She drank most of the orange soda, wolfed down the peanuts, and then fell back to sleep.

Now, she was awake again and determined to stay that way. No one spoke to her. The Lance-corporal was intent on his driving. In the passenger seat, sitting head and shoulders above the Lance-corporal, was Papa's friend, the Major. He seemed relaxed and lost in thought. His long legs were splayed out, knees bent, one foot up on the low frame of the open-sided door, and even though he wore a military uniform, something about the way he held himself made Asia think of the Zulu warriors she had seen while traveling to digs with Papa. Asia decided she had made two friends on this journey, the dead man who had given her the doll, and the Major.

Asia twisted around to look behind. They were traveling in a convoy of three trucks. The second truck was identical to the one in which she rode, but the truck that brought up the rear had a short flatbed carrying an awkward, tarpaulin-covered load. The soldiers had carefully secured the load with thick ropes. Asia faced forward. She did not want to think of what was under that tarpaulin.

The dust from the truck's wheels billowed up about her face, but this was Africa in the dry season. You ate dust. Asia took off the blue sweater she had been wearing on the air-conditioned plane and, holding the arms to either side, stretched the thin material over her nose and beneath her eyes, before knotting the arms behind her head. She might be an American national, but she had been born in Africa.

Asia fell asleep again and awakened to find that the jeep had stopped amid several dome-shaped, thatched huts. Small boys with long sticks herded stocky, thick-horned cattle through the middle of the village. The Major and Lance-corporal were gone. A gaggle of Zulu children gathered around the military truck and stared at her. One little girl, no more than five or six years old, wore a short grass skirt and was barefoot. She stared at the half empty bottle of orange Quanta that Asia had intended to finish later. The little girl, with close-cropped hair and large, luminous eyes, looked between the orange Quanta by the arm rest and the Mother doll lying in Asia's lap. To her surprise, Asia felt an irresistible urge to give them both to the child. With a flash of intuition beyond her years, Asia understood that the doll was no longer hers; it had chosen its new owner. She felt a pang of loss, yet she knew that the doll had never really been hers to keep; it belonged to the African people. Asia hugged the Mother of all Africa to her heart, kissed the top of its smooth head, and repeating the doll's name, "Chiyembekezo," handed both the remains of the orange Quanta and the doll to the girl. Asia started to tell the little girl that the name meant "hope," but of course, the child already knew that. She smiled happily at Asia and then ran off down a dirt pathway with the other children screaming after her. She was clutching the doll and the soda, one in each hand.

Asia looked up. The Major stood there looking at her with approval. Behind him stood the Lance-corporal, balancing three dripping orange Quantas in his hands. Clearly, this village had a generator. The Lance-corporal looked at Asia with his mouth open in surprise.

The Major stepped forward and placed his hand on Asia’s shoulder, stopping just short of patting her on the back. He spoke to her as if she were not eleven years old but as if she were a grownup, "Orange Quanta. It might as well be declared the international drink of all Africa."

The Lance-corporal handed them each a soda. He glanced at the Major and took a half-step back, smiling. They stood and watched the little Zulu girl run down the street laughing, holding her treasures high, with all the other children close on her heels. "Most likely, we will never see her again," the Major said. They all understood that he did not mean the little girl he was still watching. He spoke to Asia, "You were quite small the last time I saw you, Asia. Children grow so fast. Did you know that your father once took a poor village boy as his bearer and, later, thinking this boy had potential, sent him to military school?"

No, she had not known that.

The Major squatted down in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Your father is one of the finest men I have ever had the privilege to know. I shall be so happy to be the one, together with the good Lance-corporal here, to return his daughter to him." The Major smiled, and then he said a thing that caused Asia to blush. A warm feeling rose from her toes to the top of her head. "You are your father's daughter, Asia Jefferson."

*     *     *
The convoy soon left the village behind and emerged with a bounce and a cloud of dust onto a hard-packed dirt road, making the going easier. They raced by a distant herd of springbok, the reddish-brown stripe on their sides contrasting with their white bellies and faces. The shy creatures lifted their slender-horned heads to look at the roaring trucks but soon continued grazing. The convoy was too far away to be a threat. Springbok were cheetah's natural prey. She wondered where the cheetah and her cubs were now. The mother cheetah had come to Asia as her sole hope in the night. Had it been only a dream? The cheetah had called Asia "she-cub." Where are you, cheetah? Asia thought. I long to see you. You are my only mother, now.

Sitting in the back seat of the dun-colored truck with the arms of her blue sweater tied behind her head, Asia was so lost in thought that she almost missed it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a huge, spotted cat appearing and disappearing between the clumps of tall grass. It seemed impossible, but the beautiful creature kept pace with the truck, its front and back legs coming together and springing apart effortlessly as it ran, its long, spotted tail flying behind it. She could barely see the tops of the cubs' heads, short ears, and the tips of their tails over the grass as they followed their mother. When Asia became aware of the animal, it turned its face toward her. Asia felt the weight of the big cat's gaze upon her own sweater-covered features. She could clearly see its whiskery cat face and the tear-streaks of dark fur that ran down either side of its nose. Then the truck bounced down into a dry riverbed. When the vehicle roared up the other side onto the flat savannah beyond, the cheetahs were gone.

So, when Asia called, the mother cheetah had come just as she had promised. The loneliness that had dogged Asia's footsteps for as long as she could remember was gone. "I am cheetah; I am She-cub," Asia whispered under her breath. She imagined taking her place between the two cubs, her brothers, powerful muscles flexing, tail flying straight out behind her as she ran, wild and free, behind her mother. For the first time in her young life, Asia felt powerful and beautiful. She felt as if she had, at last, come home.

She opened her eyes. The truck sped over the savannah. No one paid any attention to her, just an eleven-year-old girl belted into the back seat. She turned in her seat and spread the fingers of her right hand and pressed them above the armrest against the cool metal. She imagined that her fingernails grew into sharp claws. I am cheetah. I am She-cub. She smiled. It was quite a cat-like smile.

She was startled out of her reverie by the Major's shouted words, "Ben Jefferson!"

Appearing as if by magic out of the roiling dust, Papa's museum truck bounced straight toward them. The roof was pulled back, and Papa was standing almost straight up in the driver's seat, holding onto the steering wheel with one hand, waving his safari hat with the other. He shouted her name.

*     *     *
Later, the Major watched as the museum truck with its two happy occupants disappeared over the hill in a cloud of dust. The debt he owed to Ben Jefferson had at last been repaid. He should have felt lighter; yet a shadow stalked the edges of the Major's thoughts. Meeting the archaeologist at an early age had been fortuitous for the Major and had changed the course of his life. But he had also spent his life moving between two worlds—one ancient, one modern. He had learned early to keep those two worlds separate. By adhering to this rule, the Major had risen to his current rank.

He stood for a few moments and studied the cloud of dust which lingered in the wake of the museum truck. Finally, as if finding no answers there, he turned and walked back to the convoy. By the open side of the lead truck, the Lance-corporal stood unmoving, as if fixed in place. He stared wide-eyed at something in the back seat, the seat in which Asia Jefferson had sat for the entire trip. Curious, the Major moved up beside his subordinate and froze. Deep swaths of upholstery had been shredded and torn; wadding was strewn about. Five distinct claw marks marred the hard metal above the armrest, as if from the claws of a large cat—not so large as a lion's paw, yet smaller than a grown cheetah's paw. The Lance-corporal looked ready to disintegrate where he stood. The Major laid a hand on his shoulder. "We did not start this, Ayo," he said, for the first time using the Lance-corporal's first name, "and we cannot stop it. Never speak to me or to anyone of this again. Do you understand?"

Like the good soldier that he was, the Lance-corporal nodded, got into the driver's seat, and started the engine. The Major walked calmly around to the front passenger seat, got in, squared his shoulders, and faced forward.

"See to it that the damage to the back seat is repaired, Lance-corporal."

He took no offense when the Lance-corporal did not answer. Some things were better left unspoken.