"He's gone away for the night," Burt said conversationally. He sat up
and then gingerly got to his feet. "He'll be back in the morning,
though."
The cave was destroyed. Alan's books, Ern-Felix-Grad's toys were
smashed. Their clothes were bubbling in the hot spring in rags and
tatters. Brian's carvings were broken and smashed. Schoolbooks were
ruined.
"You all right?" Alan said.
Brian dusted himself off and stretched his arms and legs out. "I'll be
fine," he said. "It's not me he's after."
Alan stared blankly as the brothers tidied up the cave and made piles of
their belongings. The little ones looked scared, without any of the
hardness he remembered from that day when they'd fought it out on the
hillside.
Benny retreated to his perch, but before the sun set and the cave
darkened, he brought a couple blankets down and dropped them beside the
nook where Alan slept. He had his baseball bat with him, and it made a
good, solid aluminum sound when he leaned it against the wall.
Silently, the small ones crossed the cave with a pile of their own
blankets, George bringing up the rear with a torn T-shirt stuffed with
sharp stones.
Alan looked at them and listened to the mountain breathe around them. It
had been years since his father had had anything to say to them. It had
been years since their mother had done anything except wash the
clothes.
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