In the soft moonlight, a series of quick, dull thuds drifted up from the chilly grass into the desolate space above.

A young boy, armed fiercely with a stick, his earth-colored hound dancing excitedly around him, chasing his own tail, exhilarated by the change in daily routine. The boy swung his stick around, fending off invisible tribesmen, scampering about the fields outside his cottage. He cut, slashed, stabbed. The hound danced as the boy did: biting, prancing, stepping up on his hind legs and crashing back to earth again. The moon painted the world black, green, gray. The light played off the boy's fair skin; it glimmered on his ferocious weapon, a warning shot to the heavens. Soon both man and beast were panting and tired, and so they plopped themselves down.

Keeran felt a damp coldness through the seat of his ragged pants. He realized just how wet the grass was. His hound didn't seem to mind, and he curled up next to his master, his mouth open, his tongue bobbing up and down with each pant. He lied down on his back, gazing up at the brilliant stars.

"The world is quiet here," thought Keeran to himself.