Kaito was quiet. The fourth sun had just disappeared again behind the granary and it was almost dark. He had positioned himself in front of a blood vent and so he wasn’t cold. He remembered his grandmother telling him to close the door firmly after the fourth sundown and not venture on the streets without a suitable weapon. In his grandmother’s hands everything was a suitable weapon. Kaito had never needed a weapon, because, contrary to some popular sayings, words could break your bones. Tonight, however, Kaito was glad for the first time he’d listened to his grandmother’s advice and strapped at least a Krragh to his left leg. He shook. The poets come at six, the Crab had told him. It was almost six now. Kaito coughed.