. . .

“When I was young,” Hans recollects, “I used to be a pretty dab hand at bird spittle. But I’m off my game; and you —”

“It’s all about the enzymes,” Joffun says excitedly, a grin spreading across his face, but Hans is holding up a hand.

“The wolf,” he says.

Joffun stands up. He straightens. He salutes Hans. It’s kind of goofy. It isn’t until he turns around that all the roiling emotions in him surge up and make spasms of fear, uncertainty, and confusion spurt here and there along his face.

Then he departs.

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