Yes, that’s a superb way of putting it, Gisco admits. I don’t see any way out of this. But we have to try. Never give up, as my dear grandfather used to say, before he hoisted the white flag and tried to surrender to a pack of gigantic mutant rats who devoured him alive.

Enough, dog. Here’s a road. Maybe we can flag down a car.

Unlikely. It’s an unpaved path. Even country bumpkins avoid driving down gravel trails in the early morning.

A car swims into view. No, scratch that. It’s a blue pickup truck.

You were saying? I ask Gisco, sticking out my thumb.

You’re wasting your time. Even if some rural rube happens to be out for a morning drive, what are the odds he’ll stop for a sopping wet teenager who needs a haircut, and a shaggy dog who hasn’t had a decent breakfast in days?

The pickup rumbles past us, stops, and backs up.

A family in the front seat. Mother, father, little girl with braces.

“Morning,” the father calls. “A little early for a swim, isn’t it?”

“Good morning,” I shout back cheerfully. “I was walking by the bank and fell in.”

“Are you headed to the fair?” he asks.

“Yes, sir, that’s where we’re headed,” I answer.

What are you saying? Gisco demands. We don’t have time to waste at a fair! The Dark Army is converging on us and you want to eat candied apples and take pony rides?

What we need, I point out, is to get away from the river as fast as possible. Capeesh?

Capeesh. I just hope this truck has decent shock absorbers and leather seats.

“If you don’t mind riding in the back, climb on in,” the man says.

The back? What are we, livestock?

“Thanks,” I tell the man, “that’ll be fine.”

“What’s your dog’s name?” the girl with braces asks. She looks like she’s about nine. Pigtails. Freckles.

“I call him Gisco. It’s a funny name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and he’s sure funny-looking.”

You’re not going to win any ribbons at the fair yourself, metal mouth.

“He is a little weird-looking,” I agree with a friendly nod. “But I’m fond of him anyway. Looks aren’t everything.”

“I know what you mean,” the girl says. “We have a butt-ugly cat named Socks, but I still like her.”

“Sally,” the mother says, “that’s not nice language.”

“I just said ‘butt-ugly,’” the girl repeats. “There’s nothing wrong with ‘butt-ugly.’”

“Say it again and I’ll swat you so hard you won’t sit down for a week.”

Lovely family, Gisco remarks. Sweet little girl. Charming mother.