Bernard, came bounding over to play with me. I continued to play and race when Clifford, the neighbors’ St. It was below freezing outside, but I’ve always been tough about the cold. I hated my cumbersome jacket and waterproof pants, so once I was sure Katarina had turned from the window I shed them, stripping down to my jeans and T-shirt. I took to the yard like a demon, running circles in the snow in my baggy clothes, leaping into snowbanks and aiming snowballs at the sun. It was early winter and Katarina had released me from our studies to go play in our snowy backyard. I turn back for one last glance and lock eyes with the Mog. I get in the car and hand Katarina the keys.
It’s strange and wonderful to consider that none of these men know us but they came to our aid, yet frightening that they don’t understand this Mog’s true power, that if he hadn’t been instructed to keep a low profile he’d have torn the skin clean off each of their bodies by now. “We called the cops, miss,” says one of them. The Mog is kneeling on the ground now, surrounded by angry men. I don’t know how long the Mog will be contained by the protective mob, our saviors, but I don’t care: I race back to the room, swipe the keys off the night table, and head back out into the heat of the parking lot. “The keys.” Katarina is panicking, near tears. With a wry, bitter smile, the Mog lifts his arms in surrender. One of them has a shotgun raised, pointed right at him. Truckers and cowboys, ordinary American men. “I’d think twice ’bout that!” I hear a man’s voice shout, and soon I am released, falling back into the seat. I feel Katarina’s hand clutching the back of my shirt. It finds only my unbuckled seat belt, which gives easily as the Mog starts pulling me through the window. My hand scrambles, looking for something, anything to keep me in my seat.