When Roh had first introduced himself to her he had filled her dreams with visions of his world – a fabulous land of pure light. It was an eternal discotheque where colors flashed and faded to the rhythms of the universe. There was no pain there. No death. Just the eternal dance. He had taken her there in her dreams. She had become like him, crimson flame and smokeless heat. She had mingled with blues and yellows, greens, purples, oranges, and pinks. Each interaction had changed her – the blues cooling her, the yellows igniting her. And she had changed them, spreading the fire in her soul until the whole world burned with her passion. That was the feeling she tried to put down on paper. Her crude artwork – though better than most of her contemporaries, thanks to Roh – couldn’t express what her inner eye had seen. But someday it would. Roh had promised her that. And someday they would find a way for her to live permanently in his world.

That’s when she saw it.

The truth of creation that Roh was trying to make her stubborn eyes see.

Wolo Mank was a steppingstone in the process of creating a universe, in the same way her first awkward drawing had only been a step toward artistic perfection. That explained his imperfect manner and appearance. He was the rough cut.

“Remember what Ro’I said yesterday, Iz?”

“I remember you dancing around like a mad person whenever he spoke. I remember barely keeping my laughter inside. I remember not being able to focus because of your antics. I don’t remember what he said that you now expect me to recall, because you made it impossible for me to hear anything he said!” She chided.

“He quoted from the Scrips.” Roh continued, ignoring her chide. “He said that the Lord of All Things made the universe with his great power, but only after he stretched out his hand.”

“So?”

“So, creation requires action. Intention will never be enough. You have to stretch out your hand.”

“And do what, exactly?”

“Make Wolo Mank love you.”

“What!?! No way!”

“You must! We must!”

“Unh-unh!”

“Yuh-hunh!”

“No, Roh! No way!”

“It’s the only way, Iz. The only way you have a chance of getting into my world!”

There it was again, the carrot that Ismelda Durant had chased for the last few years.

“What’s the plan?” She asked, resigning herself to do whatever needed to be done to achieve her goal. She grimaced as Roh laid it out for her.

From the other direction – at the other end of the school, Lead Investigator Wollick watched Gnawsha Grenn, too. He could not hide his disdain for the “Polar Queen.” Gnawsha had earned the nickname, not just because of how cold she could be, but because of the actions she had undertaken when Torm was in its darkest hours. In the midst of a proxy war with its arch enemies, the bears of Ursal – who were often referred to by their enemies as the Polars. A war that he - then Sergeant Wollick of the 153^rd Infantry Regiment – had fought in, and in which many of his friends had died, while Gnawsha had sided with the enemy. She had visited its capital, laughed with its soldiers, broken bread with its leaders, and broken the hearts of many of Torm’s citizens. Some, like Wollick, still detested her. Her flagrant disregard for patriotism should have ended her career, as far as he was concerned, but it didn’t. In fact, it established her – in the minds of her fans – as someone who was willing to say what needed to be said, even if that truth was painful. It had not been a popular war, after all, and the only one the great nation of Torm had ever lost.

For Wollick and the guys who fought alongside him, it was the ultimate betrayal. They knew in their hearts that Gnawsha Grenn was a deep-cover bear agent – a Hibernator - though none of them had ever been able to prove it. They had returned home to protests. She was given a ticker-tape parade. They had been spit on. She was showered with awards and accolades. They were called “baby-killers.” She was branded a killer of giants. Their own people, and their government had turned their backs on them. Gnawsha the traitor, and others like her, had been held up as the true heroes. Wollick and his comrades were hung out to dry while Gnawsha swam in the adoration of the people he had fought to protect.

It was suddenly cool to be a draft-dodger. To shirk your duty to your neighbors and your country. Turning your back on your friends was now the chic thing to do, from what Wollick could see. People like Gnawsha – who only cared about themselves – were suddenly the idols everyone looked up to. “Get yours and fig the rest” had replaced “Out of many, one” as the country’s motto. No wonder the whole thing is going to sheit! Wollick thought.

“Cowards.” He spat, reliving the overwhelming sense of abandonment he had felt upon his return. You don’t have the slightest idea what it means to have someone’s back! His eyes bored into Gnawsha, and even from this distance – he thought - their intensity made her squirm a bit under her expensive suit. People didn’t look out for each other anymore. That was the reason – he knew – that marriages failed at an alarming rate. That friends stabbed each other in the back. That neighbors withdrew from neighbors, hiding themselves behind their privacy fences and shuttered windows. And that was why the dogs ate the dogs.

Stupid figgin’ saying!

Wollick had never understood the claim that this was a dog-eat-dog world.

When have you ever seen a dog eat another dog? He wondered. Never. That’s when.

Dogs didn’t eat dogs.

That was a simple fact.

They didn’t eat people, either. Not domesticated dogs, anyway. Wolves, sure. They would eat people, but not dogs.

Over the course of his career he had seen a lot of dead bodies. Among them, homeowners that had died in their homes and lay there rotting until someone noticed their absence. In each of those cases – if the person owned a dog – they would find it lying near its master. Dead – or nearly dead - from starvation.

Dogs don’t eat dogs. It was a simple fact. Cats, on the other hand, well…they’ll eat you alive! Never trust a cat, or a rat. That’s what Wollick’s experiences told him. And as far as he was concerned, Gnawsha Grenn was the biggest rat of them all.

The criminals stuck together. They claimed to hate rats, too. But usually that idea was pushed by the biggest rats as a way to keep the smaller rats from ratting them out. It was glue to hold the team together. You don’t rat on me, I won’t rat on you. It worked much of the time because what rats hated more than anything was having their nests uncovered by law enforcement. Still, if they stuck together, then the cops had to, too. And so, the thin-blue line was born.

“This isn’t going anywhere, Mycah!” I said, as Lead Investigator Wollick steamed in his cheap suit. The weight of his badge and his responsibility to his fellow citizens was dragging him into a dark, judgmental place – a place I did not want to be - where only he and his fellow Law Enforcement Officers were upholding their part of the Social Compact. The citizenry they were sworn to protect had abandoned them in favor of thugs, criminals and drug addicts. Everyone wanted to be a rebel – a lawbreaker. Even some of his own kind. It was getting more and more difficult to find anyone willing to keep the peace.

As if to emphasize Wollick’s notion, Ismelda Durant was stirring her own pot of trouble. She had wrested Gnawsha Grenn away from Sid Kennu who, himself, was steaming at the brazen way she had interrupted their conversation and Marched Gnawsha away for a “chat.” The piglet had taken her friend’s advice, climbed down from the Jungle Gym, and was now filling the reporter’s ear with the name of the one classmate she hated more than any other - Jireh Jor.  Sid, Jireh’s best friend, watched from ten-feet away. He couldn’t hear what Ismelda was saying, but he guessed it wasn’t good. Part of him wanted to run and tell Jireh. He stayed where he was because the other part hoped Gnawsha wasn’t done with him yet.

“She can’t possibly believe what that little sow is telling her, can she Mycah?” I asked and was suddenly privy to Gnawsha’s thoughts on the matter. She didn’t believe Jireh Jor had anything to do with Yanna’s disappearance. She also knew that Ro’I wasn’t involved. If either of these two had been serious suspects, there would have been no reason for the Dick Head to send one of his deputies. No, this was bigger than Roana Ignah and Jireh Jor, put together. That didn’t mean the conversations she had with Ismelda and Sid were a waste of time. Naturally, her news channel wouldn’t touch their suspicions with a ten-foot pole. They prided themselves on being truth-seekers, not rabble rousers or manure spreaders. But her channel was not the only news outlet in the TeleStar family. The company that owned Channel 9 also owned several tabloids. Those rags would print anything, even wild suspicions about innocent school children and beloved authors. By tomorrow evening – thanks to a call from Gnawsha – their readers would think that two completely innocent males were complicit in the kidnapping of the century.

If my company prospers, I prosper. Gnawsha thought, justifying the call in her mind and settling her conscience. And those editors will owe me a favor!

Again, I implored Mycah to do something, or to let me do something. Again, he refused, reiterating his previous stance.

“This has already been written, Ravenna. There is no changing the book once the ink dries.” He told me, then whipped us away with a twist of his wrist.

Why can’t the universe be written in pencil? I thought, as Time sped past us.