"Unbelievable," the vice-president grumbled. "No more delays, you hear me? No more."

The plan was to get the site cleared before bringing in the VIPs and the media for the official gala groundbreaking ceremony. The highlight was going to be a special appearance by the woman who portrayed Mother Paula in the advertisements and TV spots.

Her name was Kimberly Lou Dixon, a runner-up in the Miss America contest in either 1987 or 1988. Afterward she became an actress, though Curly couldn't recall seeing her anywhere except in the pancake-house commercials. They dressed her up in a calico apron, a gray wig, and granny glasses to make her look like an old lady.

"Let me explain why you'll be out of a job if this project gets stalled again," Chuck Muckle said to Curly. "Miss Dixon's window of availability is extremely limited. She's due to start filming a major motion picture in a couple of weeks."

"No kiddin'. What's it called?" Curly and his wife were avid movie fans.

"Mutant Invaders from Jupiter Seven," said Chuck Muckle. "The problem is this, Mr. Branitt: If the groundbreaking gets postponed, Miss Kimberly Lou Dixon won't be able to attend. She'll be on her way to Las Cruces, New Mexico, preparing for her role as Queen of the Mutant Grasshoppers."

Wow, thought Curly. She's playing the queen!

"Without Miss Dixon's presence, we will no longer have a blockbuster event, publicity-wise. She's the company icon, Mr. Branitt. She's our Aunt Jemima, our Betty Crocker, our-"

"Tony the Tiger?" said Curly.

"I'm glad you understand what's at stake here."

"I sure do, Mr. Muckle."

"Excellent. If everything goes smoothly, you and I will never need to speak to each other again. Won't that be nice?"

"Yes, sir," Curly agreed.

The first order of business was erecting a chain-link fence around the construction site. Finding somebody to work in the rain wasn't easy, but Curly eventually hooked up with an outfit in Bonita Springs. Now the fence was finished, and it was only a matter of waiting for the guard-dog trainer to arrive.

Curly was somewhat nervous. He wasn't really a dog person. In fact, he and his wife had never owned a pet, unless you counted the stray cat that occasionally slept under the back porch. The cat didn't even have a name, which was fine with Curly. He had enough to worry about with the humans in his life.

At half-past four, a red truck with a camper top drove up to the trailer. Curly pulled a yellow poncho over his glistening head and stepped out into the endless drizzle.

The trainer was a beefy, mustached man who introduced himself as Kalo. He spoke with a foreign accent, the same accent that the German soldiers always had in World War II movies. Curly could hear the dogs barking ferociously in the camper bed, heaving themselves against the truck's tailgate.

Kalo said, "You go home now, yah?"

Curly glanced at his wristwatch and nodded.

"I lock up za fence. I come back tomorrow early, to get za dogs."

"Fine by me," Curly said.

"Somezing happens, you call right vay. No touch za dogs," Kalo warned. "No talk to zem. No feed zem. Important, yah?"

"Oh yah." Curly was more than happy to steer clear of the brutes. He backed his pickup off the lot and got out to close the gate.

Kalo waved amiably; then he turned the attack dogs loose. They were extremely large, all Rottweilers. They took off loping along the fence, crashing through the puddles. When they got to the gate, all four of them leapt upright against the fence, snarling and snapping at Curly on the other side.

Kalo ran up, shouting commands in German. Instantly the Rottweilers ceased barking and dropped to sitting positions, their black ears pricking up intently.

"Maybe best you go now," Kalo said to Curly.

"They got names?"

"Oh yah. That vun dere is Max. That vun, Klaus. That vun, Karl. And that big vun is Pookie Face."

"Pookie Face?" Curly said.

"Iss my precious baby. I brought him all za way from Munich."

"They'll be okay in the rain?"

Kalo grinned. "They be okay even in hurricane. You go home now, don't vorry. Za dogs, zey take care of your problem."

As he walked back to his truck, Curly saw that the Rottweilers were watching every move he made. They were panting lightly, and their muzzles were flecked with foamy spittle.

Curly figured he finally might get a decent night's sleep. The vandals didn't stand a chance against five hundred-odd pounds of badass dog flesh.

They'd have to be insane to jump the fence, Curly thought. Totally out of their minds.

The next morning, Roy's mother offered to drop him at the bus on her way to yoga class. Roy said no thanks. The rain had finally let up, and he felt like walking.

A fresh breeze was blowing in off the bay, and the tangy salt air tasted good. Seagulls circled overhead, while two ospreys piped at each other in a nest on top of a concrete utility pole. On the ground at the base of the pole were bleached fragments of mullet skeletons that had been picked clean and discarded by the birds.

Roy paused to study the fish bones. Then he stepped back and peered up at the ospreys, whose heads were barely visible over the scraggle of the nest. He could tell that one was larger than the other; a mother, probably, teaching her fledgling how to hunt.

In Montana, ospreys lived in the cottonwoods all along the big rivers, where they dived on trout and whitefish. Roy had been pleasantly surprised to find that Florida had ospreys, too. It was remarkable that the same species of bird was able to thrive in two places so far apart, and so completely different.

If they can do it, Roy thought, maybe I can, too.

He hung around watching the nest for so long that he almost missed the school bus. He had to jog the last block to get there before it pulled away, and he was the last to board.

The other kids grew strangely quiet as Roy made his way down the aisle. When he sat down, the girl in the window seat quickly stood up and moved to another row.

Roy got a bad feeling, but he didn't want to turn around to see if he was right. He hunkered down and pretended to read his comic book.

He heard kids whispering in the seat behind him, followed by a hasty gathering of books and backpacks. In a flash they were gone, and Roy sensed a larger presence, skulking.

"Hi, Dana," he said, twisting slowly in his seat.

"Hey, cowgirl."

After a week, Dana Matherson's nose was still slightly purple and puffy, though it definitely wasn't protruding from the center of his forehead, as Garrett had claimed.

The only thing startling about Dana's appearance was a fat, scabrous upper lip that hadn't been that way when Roy dropped off the letter at Dana's front door. Roy wondered if Dana's mother had popped him in the kisser.

The new injury endowed the big oaf with a disconcerting lisp. "You and me got thome bithneth to thettle, Eberhardt."

"What 'business'?" Roy said. "I gave you an apology. That makes us even."

Dana clamped a moist, ham-sized hand over Roy's face. "We're a long way from even, you and me."

Roy couldn't speak because his mouth was covered, not that he had much to say. He glared out from between Dana's pudgy fingers, which reeked of cigarettes.

"You're gonna be thorry you ever methed with me," Dana growled. "I'm gonna be your wortht nightmare."

The school bus rolled to a sudden halt. Dana quickly let go of Roy's face and folded his hands primly, in case the driver was looking in the mirror. Three kids from Roy's grade got on the bus and, upon spotting Dana, wisely scrambled for seats up front.

As soon as the bus started moving, Dana again grabbed for Roy, who calmly slapped his arm away. Dana rocked back, staring at him in disbelief.