“Yeah. Yeah, you got it.” Atta kid, he almost says, but catches himself. He’s not that far gone. Not yet.

So he digs a slingshot out of his bag, stuffs a stone into the pouch, and starts spinning it overhead, faster, faster, until the pebble arcs overhead in a high parabola and slams the burning, enraged thing in its middle. It rears up like a tarantula, skittering toward the source of the attack.

“That’s it, asshole,” Tim calls, moving rapidly back. “On me!”