Vonjo's hands rested lightly on the steering wheel as the van hummed down the cracked streets of the city.
The sun was sinking, casting slanted orange light through the dusty windshield, but his eyes never strayed from the road.
Beside him, Eugene sat stiff and quiet, his hands in his lap, still digesting everything that had happened.
The three-headed frog perched behind them croaked occasionally, its three throats harmonizing in strange, wet ribbits.
The van rattled to a stop in front of the city hospital, a modest building of faded brick and steel, its windows glowing faintly with the sterile light of recovery wards.
Outside, on the curb, George stood with the street sweeper Vonjo had arranged to guard and take care of him earlier.
George looked healthier than before, though his face still held a trace of the trauma he had endured.
