The Switching hour had arrived. I slunk on my many legs to the old wooden door; firelight seeping under it like molten lava. I scratched at the handle with my sharp claws. It swung creakily open. Astonished, I slipped inside and tasted the air for dreams. I could taste the stormy nightmares of fire and smoke, dreams of yam mash, and, finally, warm milk. But no long ago memories. Where was the old one? I went to the small boy’s cot Singing the sleeping song, I weaved the words into a net. I caught the dream like catching a fish. I took the boy.