[the plains]

[After the long, friendly day, the warm beauty of which had been so tempting to believe, whose lull was so gentle and sweet, came the night.


It was a slow, creeping darkness. A trap, a hell, a horror. The gentlemen stood about with hats doffed, not making eye contact, being as kindly as was decent.


"It's not right," they said.


"It's not right."


But in the end there was no respite save the empty plains, where the wind played low along the fences and half-starved dogs preyed on everything. Everything. Here the night was a madness, the stars pinpricks of white-hot horror; the sickle-moon a threat; the vast dark immutable, abiding.


Time had run out long ago. Waiting had no meaning here, no purpose. But what else was there to do? Listen to the wail of the fences? Watch for the swift-running dogs? The plains stretched in all directions. And they lost people before they even showed their faces—before they even offered their hands.]