“Rarf.” It is a stubborn and firm rarf, and when I resume creeping out of the woods, Proto creeps with me. I learn that free will is a good thing, but sometimes obedience is more convenient. But when we reach the edge of the tree line, I see the human guards and security robots spread out, waiting for us to emerge from cover or for daybreak. I am glad Proto is with me. His presence feels like hot chocolate. Even though my problems began with a Chihuahua, Proto has taught me that there are few things better than a dog.

Water streams from the tree branches. Rivulets snake past my feet. Some of the smaller drones have been grounded, but the bigger ones remain hovering, chopping the rain with their rotors. Protected only by plastic raincoats, the guards try to keep themselves warm with sips from thermal mugs. One guard peers through bulky binoculars into the woods. I presume the binoculars allow her to see in the dark.

There is no way around the barrier of guards and robots. The only way to the Tower is to go past them. I grab two handfuls of mud and rub it on my cheeks and into my hair as though it were shampoo. With a deep breath, I step into the open.

A guard takes a sip from his thermos. Another wipes her nose on her sleeve. The big drones hover and hum. Proto and I continue forward. Our destination is the access ladder on the side of the building.

There is a problem. A security bot looms at the foot of the ladder, its indicator lights glowing dark orange like hot coals. Even hidden from its heat-detecting sensors, I don’t know how to get past it or around it. I blink, uselessly processing and trying to remain still and quiet as the rain begins to wash the mud off me.

Proto rarfs. It is one of his loudest, highest-pitched rarfs, and he continues rarfing as the security bot’s head swivels toward him. Antennae wagging, he sprints off, splashing and zigzagging into the gloom. The security robot’s lights blaze red, and it trundles off after Proto.

Alarms and noise from drone rotors and shouts from the guards fill the night. Searchlights sweep the ground.

I must help Proto. If he’s caught . . . I verge on cheesing, just thinking about it.

But the ladder has been left unguarded.

This is what Proto must have intended.

Proto made a decision.

I make mine.

I slap on some fresh mud, grip a cold steel rung, and begin climbing.