“Hello George,” said Walter.
“Hel-lo Wal-ter,” said the Zan.
It may or may not have been the same Zan, but it was always the same ritual.
“What’s on your mind?” Walter asked.
“An-oth-er crea-ture sleeps and will not wake. A small fur-ry one called a wea-sel.”
Walter shrugged.
“It happens, George. Old Man Death. I told you about him.”
“And worse. A Zan has died. This morning.”
“Is that worse?” Walter looked at him blandly. “Well, George, you’ll have to get used to it, if you’re going to stay around here.”
The Zan said nothing. It stood there.