Night fell over Sector 7 with a gentle, calm coolness that had not touched the valley in weeks.
On the wide, sheltered timber porch of Arthur Vance’s newly renovated clinic in Slum Ward 9, a large cast-iron forge fire bowl crackled softly with seasoned birch and hickory logs. Dancing orange sparks drifted into the clear night sky, where thousands of bright, clean stars shone through the scoured mountain air, free of sulfur and coal smoke.
Arthur sat in a low, comfortable rocking chair made of split ash, his booted feet stretched out toward the hearth. His cane rested against the wall beside his freshly cleaned ARC-7 Mag-Carbine.
Curled across Arthur’s heavy boots. He took up half the porch floorboards with his massive one-hundred-and-twenty-two-pound frame, lay Grimm. The Stygian Bone-Fang Direhound was fast asleep, his glossy black coat gleaming under the firelight. Every few minutes, Grimm’s heavy ears would twitch, his broad flanks heaving with a deep, rumbling purr so low and ringing it set the empty tin mugs on the porch railing humming in sympathy. Arthur’s hand rested casually on the crown of Grimm’s silver-steel-heavy skull, his fingers gently scratching the soft fur behind the hound’s rounded ears. Grimm let out a soft, contented snort, burying his black muzzle deeper into the fold of Arthur’s trouser cuff.
