The hinges on the ancient door groaned in protest as Patrick slowly 
pulled it open.  He did not know what to expect, but who he saw standing there 
was a greater shock than he expected.
	“Taren?”
	There stood his young son, ragged and worn.  He had a large bruise 
along the right side of his face.  His muddy hair was matted in clumps across 
his head.
	Patrick gasped as Taren stumbled into the room.  He embraced the young 
lad, who hugged him limply back.  Then Patrick gently helped his son onto the 
bed.
	“Taren,” the tailor asked, “What happened?  What are you doing here?”
	The boy struggled to sit up and remove the pack from underneath him.  
Patrick reached over and helped him get it off.  The boy clutched the pack in 
his lap with one hand as he thrust in the other and withdrew a peculiar piece 
of cloth.
	He handed the material to his father, who eyed it curiously.  Patrick 
held it up to the light to examine it more closely, and his eyes widened with 
wonder.  In the faint candlelight he could scarcely tell where cloth ended and 
the shadows in the room began.  It was as if it were sucking all of the light 
into it, leaving nothing for his eyes to rest on.
	A dark chill rushed down Patrick’s spine.  Somehow, this cloth in his 
hand was linked to danger he had sensed.  He and his son were not safe.
	Then he remembered his daughter.
	Where was Melissa?

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