Stowin’ my canoe in a reed bed, I tiptoed through muck. I wanted to see this codger. I figured it was a good night’s work for just comin’ out of my flu coma. Before long, the window’s curtain showed itself to be two, drawn to the middle. In the open sliver between ’em was grey hair matted on top of a downward face. Near me, Rigl heads rose in the outer gloom. I felt his torches’ heat. Then I fell into a hole.
Scramblin’ to my feet, I saw I was in the maple-leaf web of what first appeared to be the pushed-down paw print of a giant croc. But as my eyes keened, I saw it had a fifth claw that went sideways like a thumb. Crocs don’t have thumbs.