They all came over to Bob. They thanked him. They thanked him again. They apologized. They helped him to his feet. He was practically catatonic, barely able to grunt and groan in their direction. Then they found the health patches he carried in his back pocket.

  Bob was suddenly feeling much better. It was a drug-induced illusion of course. The health patches didn't work like they used to. But enough of them still numbed you to the pain. Anyway it was better than passing out and choking on your own vomit.

  More than the wounds though was the exhaustion, mental and physical, poisonous and traumatic. Everything Bob had done and seen. It was too much, too much all together. He needed to lie down somewhere and sleep.

  Propped up on Ali's shoulder, Bob hobbled out of the cave and into the sunset. The red glow of the dying sun staining the endless grasses.

  Sophie was waiting outside. She was tapping her foot and looking impatiently at the tunnel entrance. You're got to hand to the woman, she really has grace. To arrive last, after all danger and any opportunity to help had long since disappeared, and somehow still behave like she was the aggravated party, that takes a special kind of dignity. They don't make women like that anymore.

  "Sophie, you made it? I almost thought you weren't coming."

  "Did I not warn you they would attack you? And did you listen? No. Nobody listens to poor Sophie. You spent all your time flirting with that girl."

  "Sophie, that girl is dead. Dead saving me. I won't have you speak of her like that."

  Sophie fell silent. She bit her lip. She eyed Ali, who was propping up Bob. She eyed little George, who had climbed up on George's back again.

  "What are you going to do Robert?"

  "What I should have done from the beginning. Welcome them."

  "You made them all citizens?"

  "Yes, Sophie I did. I want to help them."

  She looked conflicted. He could see she didn't agree. But in the end, she accepted it.

  "You look appalling, Robert. I can't leave you alone for five minutes without you running off and doing sometime stupid. Stupid and dangerous."

  "Sophie. you know me so well."

  "I suppose you better lie down. Give him to me."

  Bob was transferred to Sophie, who muttered something about him being fat. Nothing like a touching reunion between old friends. Bob clued Ali into the reduced shipping cost, transferred him ten thousand credits for any present needs, and told him he'd be back soon and that George would keep them all safe in the meantime. Ali scoffed: "George? That golden fluff-ball? He doesn't look like he could take down a rabbit."

  "That there is George the Golden."

  "You're pulling my leg."

  "Ali, he's stronger than I am."

  "You're pulling my leg."

  "Don't get on his bad side Ali. Even I'm a little afraid of him."

  "You're pulling my leg."

  Bob only smiled wickedly and shrugged his shoulders. Ali looked appraisingly at the golden retriever. The golden retriever who was chasing the little boy around and barking, while the boy laughed his head off and blasted his whistle. Ali tensed his bicep. He gazed at the bulging muscle and then back at the golden-furred dog. He shook his head and sighed. There are hard truths in this world.

  The five aggressors had been tied up and put under guard. They were all wounded pretty badly and wouldn't be trying anything soon. Thomas, in particular, though the least injured among the group, was utterly traumatized. Every time he heard George bark, he shivered and curled up in a ball. He would need extensive therapy and it probably wouldn't be enough.

  Sophie carried Bob out of sight (can't be too trusting) and over to the secret trapdoor. Next came the stairs. Bob really regretted not putting in an elevator. It was a long and uncomfortable walk down. Not made any more comfortable by Sophie's constant complaining.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "You have once again succeeding in muddying me. It's everywhere. How the stuff sticks! And I had just stepped out of the shower... Who designed this hovel? No elevator and dimly-lit stairs. Did the architect not know that people must live in this hole... You are so fat. I can barely support your enormous weight... And what on earth was your plan when you decided to bring the girl back up to the surface, straight into the arms of her companions? That girl looked like she would have followed you into a dragon's mouth. Why not just bring her back to the apartment? That would have been the end of it. Sometimes I wonder how you are still alive... You stink of mud. I hate the smell of mud. And you always, always stink of it. Would it be so painful to wipe away the slime now and again?"

  Bob kept telling himself that saying these things was Sophie's way of showing him that she cared. He almost managed to believe it. They reached the bedroom and Sophie deposited him unceremoniously onto the bed. She marched off, declaring that she was going to have to take a shower this very moment. It's all because she cares. It's all because she cares.

  Bob stretched back. He'd made it. At long last. After an eternity of struggle and hardship, here he was, in his feather bed. He moaned with pleasure. This here was the pinnacle of bedroom comfort, the fluffy-cloud embrace of a blue sky, the delicious softness, the serenity, the bliss of dreams.

  Now he only wished he'd had the strength to shower and change first. Because every moment he lay there, he was soiling the pristine, white sheets. His shirt clung to him with some satanic mixture of sweat, mud and dried blood. And he did not have the strength to pull it off him. Thankfully, sleep is the grand conqueror, the conqueror of kings and lions and little fishes. Sleep conquered Bob. He slept like the mud.

  Many, many hours later, Bob rose from his bed. He felt refreshed. He felt renewed. Thank heavens for a rank D body. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and started ambling towards the bathroom. He walked straight into a wall. What the hell? Nursing his nose, "I don't remember a wall here." Bob rubbed his eyes. His analytical mind booted up. Update needed. Last update: minus seven years, four months, twenty-three minutes. Bob clicked ignore. His mind grumbled into drive.

  It was a wall alright. A brick wall. Brown and earthy. Some miscreant had set it up right in front of Bob's ensuite bathroom. Villains. Everybody knows the first thing a man needs to do upon waking up is use the bathroom. Bob deliberated. He couldn't climb the wall—it reached up past the top of his doorframe. He couldn't go under the wall (stupid floor). He could maybe squeeze his way past. He would squeeze his way past. It was closer than it ought to have been. Maybe Sophie had a point. Maybe he was getting fat. Bob you are not fat. That's all muscle weight. Muscle weight, right?

  Bob did his business. He showered. He brushed his teeth. He found a tin of "Hairy Cream" by the sink, with a note from Sophie saying, "please Robert, for the good of humanity." Bob applied a dollop to his shiny, bald head and rubbed it into the scalp. Luxurious fields of brown, curly hair sprouted up. Bob smiled.

  And now for the beard, a wizard's only as good as his beard. Bob's scooped up a whole handful of the white cream and layered it over his chin, above his lip, around his throat. He would put Gandalf to shame. He would have the king of beards. The wizard of beards. Nothing happened.

  Was he using it wrong? He turned the tin over. On the bottom, under a list of ingredients and a firm warning against consumption, were the words: "a man must earn his beard." Bob was appropriately ashamed of himself. He washed away the remaining cream and started for the kitchen. Except... there was the wall.

  The shower had washed away the mental dust and this time when he looked at the wall, he thought he recognized it. That there was Harry Mud in the mud. George's fully powered fire breath had over-baked Bob's dear companion.

  "Harry? Oh Harry? Is that you? Are you still in there? Dear, dear Harry."

  The brick wall stood silent and proud.

  "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. You look... different than I remember you. No, no, not in a bad way. Thicker. Harder. More inflexible. All complements of course."

  The brick wall stood silent and proud.

  "Don't be angry, Harry. I really hadn't forgotten you. You should've seen how weak old Bob was without you covering his back. Time to get you out of there, old chum."

  Bob sat cross-legged across from his friend and tried to figure out what to do. If Harry had been a person or a piece of old cloth, he would have been long-dead. Flash-fire cremations will do that to you. But Harry wasn't just some rag Bob had picked up off the street. He was a gift from the system. An essential part of Bob's path. To completely destroy a person's companion object... That ought to be impossible for a Rank E canine (even George).

  And if Harry was alive, there had to be some way to save him. And Bob had pretty got idea about what needed doing. He filled up a glass of water and threw it on Harry. "There you are, old chap, drink up."

  He didn't know what he had expected to happen. What actually happened was that the water dribbled down and puddled on the floor.

  "Come on, boy, drink. It'll do you good."

  Bob filled up his glass and tried again. The same result. Fired mud-brick is pretty water-repellent. Bob downed a glass himself (refreshing!) as he pondered what to do.

  "You want more boy? Lots more?"

  Bob pulled out the shower head and twisted the nob up to full power. A pressurized stream of hot water jetted into the wall face. The brick got a bit wet. Ninety-nine percent of the water just slid down and started soaking the whole area with brown-tinged water. Bob's beautiful, custom-designed master bedroom... For Harry, Bob, for Harry.

  After a couple minutes, Bob twisted off the water and put his hand against Harry. There was no response. No sudden awakening. No glorious resurrection. Mud brick stayed mud brick. Bob frowned and bit his thumb. There's no way that burst of fire caused irreversible, chemical changes in Harry's makeup, is there?

  How do you get batter out of cake again? You don't, Bob. You don't.