He didn’t think about what he was doing. Clutching Scotty tightly, he just strolled through the dark opening as if it was his only option. As it became light again on the other side, The Musician realized he was getting wet. It was raining, pouring in fact.
By the time he had traversed the steps about 50 feet up the wood plank path he was already out of it. He didn’t know the name of the fox which was actually a dingo before, but now he did. “Scotty,” he addressed the dog he was holding, stroking its wet orange head. “We meet again. It’s Sikul, Scotty. Sikul Hamitk.”
And this was *greater* Muff-Bermingham.
Sunklands 