Neil's only cue for waking was the growling of his stomach. He could hardly breathe for the pain in his gut. He never remembered hunger feeling such a way, and his mind jumped to the protruding bellies of starving African children he'd seen in infomercials. His hands went unknowingly to his stomach to feel if it had gotten bigger (which, he was relieved to find, it hadn't). Then, recollection of the previous night reached his mind, and his eyes blinked open into a bright yet gray light. It was certainly morning, but a morning that felt more like an extension of the night.

It was cold and wet in the ditch. Neil remembered how close he'd been to throwing up hours ago and the question of whether anything would've come up popped into his mind. His hunger pains were enough to make him nauseated all over again. To try not to think about his stomach, he turned to look at Eric and, in the process, pulled a muscle in his stiff neck.

All his cursing and annoyance evaporated, however, when he got a good look at Eric. The kid lay on the dirt, still fast asleep, but covered in a now-dry red liquid. It resembled—distinctly—blood.

Panic flooded Neil. He shook Eric almost violently. "Are you alright? Wake up! Wake up! Don't be dead!!!"

"I'm not dead! I'm fine—I'm fine!" Eric was more upset at having been woken than anything else. His tone was grumpy and his face was puckered in annoyance.

"What in heck happened to you?" Neil couldn't resist asking, knowing it would probably cause only more irritation.

Eric scowled and half-rolled over. "What?" he muttered. "What are you talking about?"

"This!" cried Neil, waving his hands over Eric.

The blond looked at himself first to humor Neil, then, seeing the dark red stains covering his body, to further inspect his attire. His expression morphed immediately from one of frustration to one of terror. "What's happened to me?"

"That's what I've been trying to figure out!"

"Well . . ." Eric sat up sharply and patted his legs, chest, and arms, seeking whatever injury had caused so much blood. Relief flooded through him when he realized his limbs were in no pain and seemed to be working perfectly. "I'm ok. I'm ok." His words were more to reassure himself than they were for Neil.

But Neil was unsatisfied. "Are you sure? Get up and move around a little."

Eric did so, staggering a little from tiredness and stiffness, but overall, his appendages were in order. "It can't be my blood," he commented pensively, sitting down beside Neil again. "If this were all my blood," he pulled his sweater a bit off his chest as if to accentuate the stain, "then I would have to be dead. I mean, think about it—if I had lost this much blood? It's not likely I'd be alive." He thought for a moment, then, eyes widening, sputtered, "Water! It's the water from last night!"

Neil regarded the other with skepticism. "I hate to break it to you, but I don't think that's water."

"No, no!" cried Eric, almost hysterically. "I know that! It's not, now! But last night, it was! No . . . that's coming out wrong." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and calmed himself. "What I mean is that, last night, when I looked out and saw it, something was thrown all over me. I thought it was a bucket of water, because it was a cold, wet, fluid substance, but in the darkness, I couldn't tell. So this must be . . . what really was thrown over me." He studied himself and frowned in disgust, just beginning to realize what he must look like. "Ugh. Do I smell?"

Neil smirked. "I don't think that's the first question I'd be asking," he smugly replied. "What I want to know is who it belongs to."

"Who what belongs to?"

"That blood. Where did it come from?"

The question struck a new chord in each of them. It was as if, prior to Neil's voicing the thought, both had been considering the blood an accidental circumstance. When the dried, red liquid hadn't had an owner, it seemed more as if Eric had awoken with a source-less skin rash; it had been much less disturbing. But now, the idea that it had had a previous owner—that it had come from some living thing, an animal of some sort—was deplorable. And not only that, but now they also had to ask who . . . or what . . . had doused Eric in it.

Neil knew one of them would have to look. He also knew that it would have to be him, seeing as Eric had been the one to do so the night before. However, the daylight made the situation much less eerie, and he didn't feel more than a slight tremor of anxiousness in his stomach as he stood on tiptoe and peeked over the ditch's edge.

"Nothing there," Neil confirmed, sinking back down to Eric's level. "Just grass and rocks. Some sheep in the distance. No sign of anything dead, although something could be hidden behind some lump of turf."

"We'll have to go look." Eric's tone was dark and distant. This trip had taken a sudden freakish twist, and his thoughts were more on his sudden desire to be home than anything else.

The boys climbed for the last time out of their hiding place, grateful yet nervous to leave it. They gave the area a good survey, studying the turf for hoof prints, signs of blood, upturned clods of earth—but found absolutely nothing to indicate that anything had gone on the previous night. It was utterly frustrating. The only existing proof that anything at all had taken place was the dried blood on Eric's clothing and the boys' recollection (jumbled as it was) of the events. At length, with no luck and full of consternation, they concluded that their best bet was to get to the other side of the hill, where there would likely be another town. Then, they could probably find some way to get food and, perhaps, a change of clothes for Eric (who did, in fact, smell rather ripe).

They were quiet most of the walk, although Neil did ask Eric what exactly he'd seen and, with some hesitation, Eric had given him as detailed a description as he could:

It had been very dark, but he'd seen a definite horse. Its flanks were sleek and shiny black under the moonlight. Steam had condensed as the beast had huffed air out its nostrils, and, just as he'd begun to glance at the saddle, seeing a lump hanging at the side of it and what had appeared to be the thick leg of a rider, he'd been drenched with what he'd thought had been water. That was all he could remember.

Had the horse been far away? Neil had asked.

About ten yards, Eric had told him.

And then both had felt the question of how someone ten yards away could have tossed a bucket of blood so precisely over Eric's head, but neither of them voiced it, because they knew it couldn't be answered.

Neil said nothing of the voice he'd heard during the entire ordeal. It was something he was trying to convince himself he'd imagined, now that the dawn had arrived and the world was less perplexing. Just the voice itself had been enough to frighten him . . . so the fact that it was saying something so familiar to him was deeply disturbing. Neil just wanted to pretend it was a bad dream. Maybe it had been; nothing had made much sense last night. Once they got off these hills and away from the countryside—back in a town of some sort—everything would go away. Oh—and once Eric's clothes had been cleaned or changed.

They walked for several hours, well into the mid-afternoon, without seeing anything remotely resembling a town. Both were beginning to question the decision not to go back to Clifden, but neither would broach the subject, knowing it would open a sore of potential arguments.

They were hungry. Their stomachs were empty and beginning to chew themselves. Their throats were parched and Eric remarked more than once that he was spitting cotton. Despite the fact that they were now going predominantly downhill, they were tired and achy. If either spoke, it was only to complain.

And then, just as both were dreading the certain possibility of spending another night in the hills without food or water, feeling suddenly and drastically alone in a void constructed only of turf and mud, Neil found a sign of hope.

"Look!" he cried, pointing. "It's a sheep!"

Eric's first thoughts were for his stomach and the inner savage his hunger had awoken. "You chase it over here, and I'll grab it. You have a knife? I don't . . . but we can get some sharp rocks, and get a campfire going (somehow, in this marsh)—"

"Shut up, will you?" Neil insisted. "I don't want to eat it! Sheep mean people must be close by. Sheep aren't wild, you know."

"I wouldn't be so sure, in this place."

"Someone has to own them," Neil continued, ignoring the somewhat wounded look in the kid's eyes. "And the owners can't live too far. Come on."

They kept on. The sheep began to become more plentiful. At least twenty or thirty were scattered about the hillsides, chewing the rich grasses and just lazing around. Neil was sure he was right—they had to all belong to somebody, and that somebody couldn't be too far off. Eric was going to comment that this was modern day, not provincial England or anything, and there weren't just going to be shepherds out tending their flocks, eating bread and cheese chunks and playing lutes. However, he didn't feel the energy inside him to get the words out. And anyway, before much time could really pass, they saw, in a small valley made visible as they rose over the peak of a hill, a house.

This wasn't a poor man's shepherd's shack (which one might expect to see in the middle of nowhere) but a lovely, well-kept, brand new house. It was whitewashed, its windows were as clear as crystal, and boxes of petunias hung at each sill. There were a couple of cars in the drive—one was an old, dirty pickup truck, the other was a sparkling, brand new BMW. The boys unknowingly gave each other sideways glances. These weren't poor country folk, obviously.

"Well?" Eric asked.

"Let's go see what they're about," suggested Neil, trying to hide his relief.

The two plodded downhill, keeping their eyes open for signs of human life. When they were about twenty yards from the door, they paused, unsure whether they should go on. They grew nervous. Neil made an executive decision: "You stay here," he ordered Eric. "If there is anyone there, my appearance will scare them less than yours."

Eric was near protesting but recalled that he was drenched in what resembled blood and stank like a dead animal. Even Neil, in his leather jacket, baggy dark clothes, and mud-coated hair couldn't look half so bad. So he stayed at the fence while Neil went on, and he scowled at the clouds above, which he silently dared to start spouting rain again.

Neil approached with caution. After the events of the previous night, he was ready to expect anything. For all he knew, a bucket of blood would be tossed at him when he opened the door, and after smelling Eric for the past hours, that was the last thing he wanted. Feeling timid but shoving that weakness under some scraps of false bravery, the boy knocked on the front door. Immediately, dogs began yapping; there had to be at least two . . .

No, five, he saw as the door zipped inward and a circus of furry little beasts encircled his legs, snicking at his pants. Managing to keep his cool even as his heart sped up, Neil looked up from them and into the eyes of a lovely face. It belonged to a girl with short, straight brown hair and black eyes that reminded him, for some reason, of glittering bird eyes. Freckles crossed her nose, and she was dressed in jeans and an overly-large, cream-colored cable-knit sweater. She was entirely unabashed to see a stranger standing at the door of her in-the-middle-of-nowhere home.

"Can I help yeh?" she asked, chewing gum without restraint.

Taken aback at her lack of apprehension, Neil stumbled over his words. "Oh . . .I, I . . . you see . . ."

She raised her eyebrows, obviously impatient.

Neil shook his head and his thoughts locked into place. "I need some help. I'm lost. I've been in these hills for over a night and I'm hungry, thirsty, dirty . . ."

"And smelly," she noted, surveying him, popping a gum bubble.

Neil was absolutely shocked at her casualness (and also a little offended that she thought he smelled; he was pleased to have told Eric to remain behind). He couldn't find words to reply.

"Yeh do know there's a road about half a mile to the right and another to the left, dontcha?" she asked him quizzically. "It's just tough to see, hidden in the hills and all, yeh know."

Once again, Neil had no response, although his face was beginning to feel rather warm. The girl grinned, and Neil's cheeks were fiery.

"Who's that, Sorcha?" a deep voice called from somewhere beyond the door.

"Oh, Da!" the girl called over her shoulder. "Just another lost tourist. Dontcha worry yourself—I'll set him on the right road." So saying, she came out onto the front step and closed the door behind her. "Gaw, he's a bit annoying when he hasn't got a bit of the drink in him."

A sudden connection to this girl formed in Neil's heart.

She wasn't suspicious about Neil at all. In fact, she boldly took hold of his forearm and led him away from the house, toward a small hut or shed around the back. The boy didn't know what to expect. He was still startled and quite embarrassed. But when they reached the building, the girl let go of him and pointed, saying, "In there. Got a toilet and shower. Tidy up, then I'll walk yeh into town." She turned and left, as if strangers arriving at her isolated cottage all dirty and hungry was entirely normal. Neil didn't say a word as he watched her disappear around the front of the house. She was remarkable. For some reason, a bright picture of her face stayed imprinted in his mind.

"Psst! Loverboy!" came Eric's voice from a clump of nearby bushes, shaking the image of the girl from Neil's mind. "What are you goggling at?" He emerged and approached the shed. "Can I go in?"

Neil blinked hard several times. He felt stuck—he hadn't mentioned to the girl (whose name he hadn't caught) that there were two of them. Would she get angry or—worse—make his face burn again? "Nope," he bluntly stated.

Eric hardly heard the response. He strode up to the shed and was about to go through the door, all grins and chattering about some bug he'd seen in the plants, when Neil's arm shot out and stopped him. The kid frowned, not getting it. "Hey!" he said, half-laughing, thinking it was a joke. "What are you doing?"

"You can't go in."

"But . . . why?"

Neil sighed. He felt a little guilty for having to say it. "Because I didn't tell her there were two of us."

For a second, Eric seemed put off, but then his old stubborn look returned. "Who gives a turkey tail? I'm sure no one will even notice if I go quickly. Now get out of my way!"

Eric was so adamant, and Neil felt so sorry for him, that the redhead gave in and allowed him passage (though he cautiously looked about to make sure the girl had not noticed).

While Eric occupied the toilet and shower, Neil waited outside, though he moved around to the back of the shed where he wouldn't be seen if someone peeped out the house's windows. He kicked at bushes, tried to comb the dirt out of his hair with his fingers, chewed some leaves he found that smelled vaguely of mint, and removed his leather jacket to air out his armpits. It seemed that at least a half an hour passed, and still, he heard the sound of the shower running. Eric was certainly taking his time.

When at last the blond boy did emerge, his clothes, while wet and still looking a little pink, were less frightening, and he smelled like soap.

"Took your damn time, didn't you?"

"Nose up in the air, Eric replied, "Your vulgarity amuses me." Then, more seriously, he added, "Besides, I had a lot of scrubbing to do."

Grudgingly, Neil said, "I should say so," and shoved past Eric into the shed.

Left alone outside, Eric was reacquainted with the silence of these hills. He felt very cold and had the sinking understanding that he was getting sick from walking around in wet clothes for so long. His shoulders were aching and his chest was beginning to fill with phlegm. He was tired of this trip. Tired and achy and annoyed that he had allowed himself to get so off track. Eric let misery sink in. He was going to embrace feeling physically and mentally like a loser. Unlike Neil, he was more than ready to admit defeat. He wanted to go home, to his warm house and soft bed, where he could get into some dry clothes and put food in his stomach. Where he had a family who, after scolding him and grounding him for life, would still love him.