Pherson had barely changed. His hair had grown wilder, his stubble had become something resembling a beard. He was thinner, older, greyer. But still at least a decade younger, and so much time spent out in the bush kept him active and healthy.

Pherson knew Mitchell was home. A spider spinning its web nearby told him that no one had left the cabin in a while, and an ant crawling under the door let him know that something big was home.

Hundred was here, Pherson knew he was here.

LET ME IN BEFORE MY FRIEND BREAKS THE DOOR DOWN.

The use of his Voice was immediate, automatic. He had almost forgotten how not to speak with it, having spent so much time among no others but his children.

He looked behind him to the horse he had ridden on, gesturing it to come closer. He didn't even need to tell it such simple commands now, it had learned.