"I need advice, sir. And I didn't call you. Or rather I called you about different matter altogether."

While the colonel was officially not talking, the base medical officer was arming himself with a generous ration of candy in case he met up with a certain small boy again. Who would have thought one child could yell and bite so much?

In a remote corner of a wildlife reservation, some distance away, a winged dragon sighed gustily and licked his new white little teeth with a long red snaky tongue. They helped his speech as well as his chewing. "I feel as if my life is lacking something."

His sibling, Bitar, licked his chops too. "Something of the flavor of life."

"Could be ketchup?" said Smitar, after serious thought, and then concentrated on trying to reach an annoying itch between his shoulder blades.

"Or it could be hot sauce. Who would have thought that American maidens would be in such short supply that they'd have to be protected game?"

"Over hunted," said Smitar righteously. "Should have introduced a permit system. Or reservations. Or a minimum size limit."

Bitar shook his vast armored head at the iniquity. "A bag limit." He paused. "It wasn't you, was it?"

"Not unless I'm sleep-eating again," said Smitar. "If it wasn't me, was it you? And can you scratch this spot for me?"

"We need Cruz," said Bitar, obliging. "He can give a decent scratch with an oar. Do you think we're molting again?"

"Could be. It's this foreign food. Very greasy. Fattening." Smitar patted his midriff.

"You haven't been eating these foreigners again?" demanded Bitar accusingly. "You know Medea told us not to. Anyway, you could have shared!"

"Phttt," said Smitar. "He was barely a snack. And Cruz said that anyone from the INS was fair game. I still feel something's missing in my life. I've got this sort of inner itch too."