"What difference does ... eight?"
"Eight years dead."
Prickles crawled over Phil's scalp and his mind raced. A series of memories snapped into place.
"Eight. And I laughed at Clancey!"
"I know—I heard. You were getting too close for comfort so I distracted you by giving you a headache."
"Stop—let me get my breath!" His voice rose until it threatened to crack. What am I talking to! A dog?"
"Yes."
"Homer? I don't believe it!"
"Watch." The boy slipped from the log and sat beside it on the ground, his back braced. "Timmy would simply fall on his face," he explained, and with the words the face became empty and the mouth hung foolishly open. Control had been relinquished. The corner of Phil's eye caught an answering movement that his senses wanted to reject, but he turned. Homer had raised his head painfully and was looking directly at him, unmistakable intelligence in the exhaustion-glazed eyes. The fringed lips curled back, the throat worked. Strange sounds were forced out, growling but not doglike.
"Ar-ro ... ar-rik." It was a barely recognizable distortion of "Hello-Warwick." "Ok-all ... orr ... ron." Vocal-cords-wrong? "Im ... ork." Tim-talk?