I don't recall ever falling asleep. I must have, at some point, however, for here I am, squinting in the morning light. What's more, as the waking blur leaves my vision, I find that, I'm sure, I am very far from my rock. I don't panic, no, because my first thought at finding myself propped up in a steadily trundling haycart is that the lawmen found me in the night, and I must be safe, and must surely be on my way to the Oswald estate.

Of course, here I come to realize that, no, lawmen don't typically drive haycarts. In fact, lawmen don't tend to have anything to do with hay at all. This was concerning, though the shrinking sign at a distance before me, reading a warm Amity welcome, was far more so. I turn to look for the faces of my drivers. I do so slowly, so as not to stir a great deal of noise from the dried grasses beneath me.

My breath sounds before I can stop it. A sharp intake, loud enough to draw attention to my sorry self. Their eyes bulge- not out of force or shock, but because it is simply the way they are.

Heathens.

Fish people.

Aquians.

"By Laod!" I cry, with a great deal of alarm, for I never imagined I'd be kidnapped by the people of the sea. Frankly, I never thought I'd see one, let alone two.

The one with the thick, cloudy glasses, that take up half of her squashed old—I think she is old, I think she is female—face, startles me with a quick hand to my shoulder. Perhaps it is no threat of a gesture, but it's more than I am comfortable with. I recoil from the brittle green-gray fingers and stagger to stand. With thought of escape, my gaze finds the road, but I hesitate.

I'll tell you why. The road is fresh gravel, and my feet are bare and bruised.

I gather my wits about me. Bloody soles aren't going to kill me.

A clicking behind me serves as distraction, and I, curious as I am, can't resist a look.

"Don't jump," says the other heathen, the one that may have been pretty had she skin of a natural color, or proportionate eyes. It comes as a surprise to me that my kidnappers speak my language, and, in a way, it calms me.

"Take me back to Amity," I demand. I'd like to think I sounded fierce, but I can't forget how my voice is... still maturing—that was how mother and the doctor always put it. By which, I mean, my voice often cracks.

"We help."

The elder begins to make noises again. I can see from the movement of her wrinkled, sallow cheeks that the noises come, predominantly, from flicks and pulls of her tongue, while other syllables to her apparent speaking are produced by the gnashing of her near toothless gums, and the grinding of her remaining seven teeth.

The somewhat pretty heathen takes a breath, and I, interested, squint to catch a glimpse of her teeth. I find only eight, one more than the other lady, which confirms that few teeth must be a trait of their species, rather than of age, as I had first assumed. Her clicks come lighter and faster than her partner's.

I wish I understood them. As I listen, and ogle, I find myself recognizing hand gestures, expressions, and tones. Are they speaking of me?

I can't help but wonder.

Then the old one holds up my safe, and I don't wonder any longer.

"Hey!" I admit, I'd forgotten it. "That's my property!"

They stare at me, as if I am in the wrong. As if my actions confuse them or disturb them. Their jaws lock, their eyes bulge further, and the flaps on the sides of their heads- flaps where their ears should be, but aren't- stand out. I straighten my back, and look down at them over my nose. With them sitting down, and me standing up, wouldn't you reckon I've got a firm standing in a position of power? I would.

The flaps flatten against their skulls again, and they turn to each other with urgent clicking. They blink a lot when they speak, and it makes me think that it is another part of their language. To read blinks. Perhaps like Morse code.

I reach for my safe, and am immediately slapped away. I swear, the old fish's hand sprouted spikes! I feel them now, dents in my skin in neat rows. My vision speckles with purple. In moments, everything is purple. I am purple?

The young Aquian hisses and grinds her teeth.

Her hands are softer when they grip my wrists. No spikes.

"Gah!" Spikes. I feel them, only for a moment, and they are gone. I fight to get away from her and fall in the hay when she willingly lets me go.

I can hear my heart pounding. The purple gets lighter, and soon lifts fully away. The trees to my left are green, the lake to my right is blue, and my hands are a very normal tan.

"We help," the young Aquian says. The nerve of her! Had I been poisoned?

She leaves her old friend behind and joins me in the hay. Her form is very human, but there are fins on her arms, her very abnormally long arms, and she is dressed in drying weeds and fishnets. She stinks. She really stinks.

I don't meet her freakish eyes, for my focus is on her clothes. By Laod, there must be long-dead fish still wound in those nets.

"I am Thenshie," she grunts. Her speaking is coarse. It sounds forced. I flinch away. She hesitates, and extends her hand towards me. I reach to one side and grab a bale of hay, which I hold between us. Her brows, made up of scattered, thick, wire hairs, pinch together. So barren.

I saw a sea cow once, at Lilton Crest, the beach I used to visit every year to watch the local regatta with my mother. (My mother, my mother, my mother.) I'd seen it up close, and this is why it now comes to mind; the Aquians have eyebrows with hairs no different to a sea cow's whiskers. The hairs on their scalps are much more human-like.

"This my friend Rootwig." Thenshie gestures to her partner. I eye the sinewy skin between her fingers. "She is Seer. She says you can help us. We help you."

I scoff and look her up and down with the most authority and dignity that I can muster. "The only way that you can help me is by returning to me my safe, and taking me back to Amity this instant," say I. I won't lie, I'm pleased with how it came out. There wasn't a single break to be heard. Confident in my delivery, I continue, "The lawmen are looking for me, and if you don't bring me back now, they'll find you kidnapping me, and you will be in a great deal of trouble, I promise you that."

"Amity," she repeats. She blinks. The wideness of her eyes makes my skin crawl. The unease almost ebbs my courage. Only almost. "This is your town, yes?"

"Yes!" I exclaim.

"Men return to your nest to search. Cannot go back to nest." She shakes her head. She turns and reaches her long arm to the steering bench. To my surprise, she takes the safe in her hand, and drops it onto the hay bale in my arms.

I swallow and take it. My nest, I'm sure, is my home. "How do you know?"

"Seer." She points to Rootwig. Rootwig grins a crazed grin, like a child hearing the one word they know.

Thenshie peers over my grassy shield and presses her finger to my possession. "They search for the way. You know the way. We take you to safe place, and we follow your lead."

My tongue locks. Whatever does she mean by saying 'I know the way'? Is she sound of mind? Some sort of nutcase? Should I be surprised? She smells like week-old chum. I've heard rumors of an institute in Greens, a few hundred miles south. Perhaps she hails from there.

Now, I've read that dealing with asylum cases is mostly straightforward. It calls for a little roleplay. You must take the position of the character that they want you to be and play the role to your advantage—at least according to the one obscure fiction novel that touched on the subject.

Where does that put me?

"I'll tell you the way," say I, as the brilliant man that knows the elusive 'way'. And from myself, to myself, I congratulate my cleverness. "The Oswald estate in Amity. It sits on the hill."

Thenshie tilts her head to one side. "The way, my friend, is in the box. I think you do not know it yet." I gulp. With my safe in my arms, I consider making the jump to the gravel. I could run to Dr. Oswald's.

Thenshie crosses her legs. I gag at the sight of her feet. Five long fingers—for lack of a better word, this is what they appeared as to me—protruding from her heel in an arch, with the same fleshy webbing between them as on her hands.

"What is at this place in Amity?" she asks.

I look away, grimacing. "Dr. Oswald is a good man with a good reputation, and I heard from him directly that he would take me in. I want to go back to stay with him. I will not be held against," and there's the familiar squeak, "my will."

Thenshie clicks her tongue. She meets Rootwig's eyes, blinks, and gnashes her gums. The cart stops for a moment. Their conversation continues, brief spouts from each. Rootwig nods a few times, and then gives a thumbs-up to me.

Stumped, I stare.

She pulls at the reins, and the horse shakes its dopey head. Rootwig gives a bitter cluck and another tug, after which, the old mare obeys. The cart shivers into action over the gravel, and I almost don't believe it! At a crawl, we turn. I forgive the horse for its lack of efficiency in the business of changing our direction, for the speed really is no matter. My spirits are restored! What luck! A smile barges its way to my cheeks, and I let it come. Amity no longer shrinks away. Slow and steady, we gain on it.

Soon enough, the lake falls behind, and I count the seconds left to reach town, whistling my tune as we go.

Only a few hundred, I reckon, with the town sign so close.

Not much longer.

Oswald, here I come.