Weasel dodged the fruit vendor’s grasp! He wove between pedestrians and jumped over toppled obstacles. He’d done this before. It’s how he survived in Cog Town after all. He snagged two apples and a loaf of bread from the market and foraged for the bits of meat in some restaurant trash cans. He got by.

He reached a familiar alley, climbed up a stack of crates, and grabbed a window sill. He heaved himself up and grabbed the roof’s gutter. Another small effort later, and Weasel was walking along red clay shingles.

He sat down against a stonework chimney. Pinch should be here already; he was never late.

Weasel opened and placed the bag of scraps next to him. He barely released the bag when an invisible force began rummaging through the meat.

An imp materialized: his skin was scabby, his face was ratlike, one eye was glossed over, he had a nub for a tail, and small wings hung limp down his back. The fiendish pest was a pitiful sight.

“Took you long enough,” Pinch squeaked.

“You’re welcome,” replied Weasel.