“Right, he’s at St. Michael’s.” Consulting the Google map, I notice it will take us a while to get there. “Looks like a bit of a walk. You need a walk anyway, don’t ye?” I ask the hound.

“Yes, a walk would be good right about now.”

“Anything ye need to bring? We won’t be coming back here, because I don’t have the key.”

“I’m supposed to be on a leash in the city, but that’s it. Everything else is Atticus’s stuff. Oh, wait! He left his sword here. It’s under the mattress. He’s going to want that.”

“I should imagine so.” I retrieve it, strap it to me back, leash the hound, and leave the rest. Down the stairs we go, past some rather shocked people in the lobby who didn’t know they made dogs in Oberon’s size.

Once he’s outside, Oberon informs me that he’s going to need to do some “urban fertilization.”

“Is that what ye call it?”

“Atticus says my waste helps plants. It’s science! Which is great, because I like peeing on them. I like to pee on streetlights and fire hydrants too, but it turns out that doesn’t help them like it helps plants.”

“And what do ye do when ye have to shite in the big city?”

“Well, you are never supposed to do that on the sidewalk, Owen. That’s rude.”

“Hey, I know that already, ye don’t have to tell me!”

“You hardly know how to use a phone or turn off a television, so obviously I can’t assume you know these things. Since you didn’t have sidewalks in your day, I thought maybe you weren’t aware that they are not for shitting.”

“Gods blast it, I was asking ye where you shite in the city, not where I should do it!” I might have said that a bit too loudly, because people on the sidewalk look at me out of the corners of their eyes and swerve away from the man talking to a giant dog about where to drop a pound. Maybe I should talk to him the way Siodhachan does, with me mind instead of me mouth. I can do it, but it doesn’t come naturally. I never bound myself to an animal this way.

“It depends on the city and the degree of my fecal urgency.”

“Fecal urgency? This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some bloody strange ones lately.”

The hound eventually takes care of his business behind a hedge we’re passing and then brags about his discretion.

“Nobody will step in it there, and it will break down in a few weeks.”

“Well done,” says I, thinking for two whole seconds that I’m going to have some peace before the hound speaks again.

“I’m hungry, Owen.”

“That’s too bad. I don’t have any food on me.”

“But we’re passing all these restaurants and I can smell the good things inside. You can go in and buy something. Please?”

I start to object that I don’t have one of those credit cards that people always use to pay for things but then remember that Greta gave me the paper with the old lady on it, and something clicks. I pull it out and show it to the hound. “Hey, do you know if this is cash money?”

“Yeah, those are Canadian dollars! And you have a lot! You can buy plenty of food!”

“Who’s this lady with the beads, then?”

“I think that’s the queen. She was in The Naked Gun. Which means those aren’t beads. Those are pearls.”

I don’t understand all of that, but at least I learn that Canada is ruled by a queen.

“All right, where should I go to get food?”

“This place up ahead. I can smell the gravy.”

He stops in front of a small shop with a large glass window painted with red and white letters. POUTINERIE, it says.

“What is a poutinerie?” I asks him. It’s an unfamiliar word.

“I don’t know, but they have gravy. Just get something with gravy on it. I’ll wait here like I’m supposed to.”

There’s a small line inside and a menu posted near the ceiling. I can’t make any sense of it except that it sells all different kinds of whatever poutine is.

“Give me whatever’s most popular here,” I says to the merchant when I get to the front of the line. “As long as it has gravy on it.”

“Everything has gravy on it,” the young man says. He has dull eyes and red spots on his face, but his tone sounds like he thinks I’m stupid.

“Good. Two of your popular things, then.”

He asks me if I want a drink; I says water, then he pronounces a number and looks at me like I’m supposed to do something. I give him Canadian money and he gives me some back—it has a number 5 on it and no queen; it has a dodgy man with a bald pate and a stiff white collar instead. Maybe he’s the king of Canada. He also gives me a small white piece of paper and calls it a receipt. I have just completed me first modern trade.

There’s a short wait and then I’m given two brown boxes with folding flaps on top and a bottle of water. I take this outside to the hound, open one box and set it down for him. Poutine turns out to be fried potatoes with cheese curds all covered in gravy.

“Oh, man, this is my new favorite thing,” Oberon says as he gulps it down. I have to admit that once I try my own, it’s not bad. Hunger slain, we proceed to the hospital, where the hound suggests that I camouflage him so that he can go inside with me. I figure I have plenty of juice in me knuckles, so I put them on, cast the spell, and we go inside together.

I pretend to be Siodhachan’s father when I inquire at the front desk about him. The nice lady informs me that he’s in something called the Intensive Care Ward, recovering from surgery, but says I can’t go any further wearing a sword.

Well, balls to that. I tell her I’ll go put it in my car, find a corner to duck around, and cast camouflage on meself, telling the hound to stay out of the way and I’ll return soon with Siodhachan. I walk back in, follow the signs to Intensive Care, and eventually find Siodhachan’s room. He’s unconscious or asleep, in a bed with metal rails on the sides, and he’s got all manner of tubes and things in his nose and his arm. There are beeping noises and loud breathing, and none of it sounds natural. He’s wearing a flimsy piece of cloth, and I don’t see his regular clothes around. It’s like they dressed him to look fragile. I don’t think I should throw him over me shoulder in his condition. Somebody really did kick his arse.

I reach out to Oberon with me mind. He might know what to do better than I.

Oberon? Can ye hear me?

“Yeah. Did you find him?”

Aye, but he’s unconscious and has all these tubes in him. He’s not walking out with me right now.

“You need to get a wheelchair. Pull the tubes out if it won’t make him bleed, get him in the wheelchair, and push him right out.”

What’s a wheelchair?

“As you might expect, it’s a chair with wheels on it. Helps you move people who can’t walk. Look around in some of the rooms or the halls; you’ll see one eventually.”

That takes a bit more time than I would like, but the hound is right; one eventually comes along. A nurse wheels an old man into a room near Siodhachan’s and helps him into bed. He looks like he’s about the age I was before I drank that tea Siodhachan made for me, and his skin is dry and papery. He’s asleep before the nurse is finished pulling up the sheets over his thin frame. I wait for her to leave and then I cast camouflage on the wheelchair and steal it. A few minutes after that, I’ve stolen me a Druid and I’m out of the hospital with a camouflaged Siodhachan in the chair. I drop the camouflage on meself and the hound as we walk away but keep it going on me old apprentice. The hound gets more and more worried when Siodhachan doesn’t respond to him—apparently he’s never had his food reviews ignored before, and the discovery of poutine should have roused Siodhachan right away.