“Just like old times,” says Pippin as we count shooting stars over Tuckborough.

I straighten suddenly, pointing to a figure on the road. “Who’s that?”

Pippin stares first at the road, then at me. “You have good night eyes, Pervinca.”

I almost tell him of the Bounders teaching us to look just above the horizon to spot movement in the dark, of moonless nights keeping watch so any attack would find all our menfolk well-rested. Just in time, I remember how pleased he is to think that nobody here really changed, and say only, “You should have eaten your carrots.”