The gruff voice from behind shook Tick out of his stupor. He whirled to see Sally standing there, arms folded, looking like he’d just lost that morning’s grits and eggs. Face pale, beard scraggly, eyes bloodshot, the man didn’t seem too happy to see them. He was dressed in his usual lumberjack garb—thick green-flannel shirt, dusty overalls, big brown work boots. A leather satchel hung loosely over his shoulder.

Paul let out a little yelp at Sally’s surprise appearance.
“Sa-Sally? Where’d you come from?”

“Where you think, boy?” He made an unpleasant sucking sound in his throat then spat on the ground. “Ol’ George sent me after you rug rats.”

“How’d you get here?” Sofia asked. “You can’t tell me there’s a cemetery nearby.”

Sally turned and pointed at nothing in particular. “There’s a might nice spat of his fancy kyoopy gobbledygook back yonder ways. You three too busy starin’ at that big pile of sticks to notice me comin’ up on ya.”

Tick shook his head, finally feeling like the world had solidified again around him. That message on the door, he thought. That message! “Why’d Master George send you back to us? I thought we were on our own.”

Sally shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Still are, I ’spect. Just come to pass on a little somethin’, that’s all.” He slid the satchel off his shoulder and down his arm, then opened it up. After a few seconds of rummaging around, he pulled out a shiny silver cylinder, two inches in diameter and six inches long.

“This here whatchamacallit is for you whipsnaps,” he said, holding the small rod out toward Sofia, who stood closest to him.

She shook her head. “If that’s what I think it is, you better give it to Tick. We can’t go with him anymore.”

Sally’s arm dropped to his side, the cylinder gripped in his hand; his eyes squinted in confusion. “What in the name of Mama’s chitlins stew you talkin’ ’bout? You ain’t done forgot the plan, did ya?”

Tick wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat again.

“No, we didn’t forget the plan,” Sofia said with a sneer, then pointed toward the door with the creepy red letters scrawled across it. “But that stupid door says that only Tick can go through it. If Master George wants him to get close to Chu, looks like he’s on his own.”

“You don’t know that,” Tick said, forcing the words out through a cough that rubbed the back of his mouth raw. “Maybe I just need to go in, do something, and come right back out.”

“Doubt it,” Paul muttered.

“Why?” Tick asked.