STEVEN HAD SOME DIM, almost dreamlike memory of dogs that acted friendly, dogs that didn’t roam the streets in packs and pull you down and tear you apart and eat you alive; and he had a memory of the squirrels in the park being so tame that they’d eat right out of your hand....
But that had been a long, long time ago—before men had started hunting squirrels, and sometimes dogs, for food, and dogs had started hunting men.
Steven turned south and paralleled the bridle path, going always wherever the cover was thickest, moving as silently as the breeze. He was going no place in particular—his purpose was simply to see someone before that someone saw him, to see if the other had anything worth taking, and, if so, take it if possible. Also, he’d try to get a squirrel.
Far ahead of him, acros
