The stranger sat behind the wheel in the silent old Rover and peered down the hill through the dirty windscreen. He slowly folded the small, silvery-metal communicator in his large right paw, and watched the hijinks outside the door of the long cabin, catching glimpses of Dundees large posterior coated with fragments of snow and twigs, as the huge, handcuffed brute started a weaving gallop around the corner of the building, chasing York's smaller and cleaner butt out of sight.

He swung his attention back to the entrance. Right on schedule, bouncing sun-beams in all directions like a blue-jean Madonna, the redhead had pulled up in a small pickup truck and sidled through the door, hefting a violin case. The stranger stared after her, lost in thought. He snapped out of it, blew his nose on a paper towel, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and reached into the back of the Rover for some fixings and a worn and dented frying pan. Bannock would be hungry.