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‘But it may be difficult to explain why those two never returned,’ said Feromas. ‘Perhaps it would be better if Geoffrey simply stayed in Brighton with us.’

Damian gave a shrug. “Eh. Geoffrey can do what he likes. He’s old enough to make his own decisions now.”

“Grandpa, who are you, exactly? Why were they so afraid of you?”

Feromas answered before Damian could. ‘No offense, Geoffrey, but you don’t seem very good at keeping secrets. I think you already know more than enough.’

“And besides,” Damian added, “the porcupines would be upset if I told you their baking recipes. Very stingy creatures, they are.”

Geoffrey blinked dully.

‘Well, at least he’s lucid when it matters.’

Sour-faced, Geoffrey left them alone. He returned to his room and tossed his keepsakes of Colt on a bedside table. When the coat hit wood, however, it made a hard sound, harder than mere cloth should have made. He rifled through its deep pockets and soon found a variety of objects. A few coins, some spare bullets, bubblegum, a handkerchief, a granola bar, a flick knife.

And a cellphone.

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Hector ended up getting pulled over by a highway trooper on the way back to Brighton. After taking a moment to absorb the sight of the motorcycle and helmeted person with two babies wrapped in metal, the uniformed officer seemed to have difficulty explaining precisely how illegal and stupid the whole thing was.

Hector, of course, was even worse at explaining his circumstances--not that there was any way he could have talked his way out of it. At length, he made the officer’s gun an iron paperweight, broke through his handcuffs, and apologetically destroyed the radio in the trooper’s car.

Garovel suggested he slash the vehicle’s tires as well and then call a tow truck for the guy, but Hector thought that would be overkill. Disarmed and without backup, the trooper did not seem particularly interested in pursuing him any farther, so Hector let him be and rode off toward Brighton again.