"I got twenty from the space cowboy, I got twenty, sir will you say thirty?" I waved my card. "That's thirty to you sir." "Forty," Craphound said. "Fifty," I said even before the auctioneer could point back to me. An old pro, he settled back and let us do the work. "One hundred," Craphound said. "One fifty," I said. The room was perfectly silent. I thought about my overextended MasterCard, and wondered if Scott/Billy would give me a loan. "Two hundred," Craphound said. Fine, I thought. Pay two hundred for those. I can get a set on Queen Street for thirty bucks. The auctioneer turned to me. "The bidding stands at two. Will you say two-ten, sir?" I shook my head. The auctioneer paused a long moment, letting me sweat over the decision to bow out. "I have two -- do I have any other bids from the floor? Any other bids? Sold, $200, to number 57." An attendant brought Craphound the glasses. He took them and tucked them under his seat. # I was fuming when we left. Craphound was at my elbow. I wanted to punch him -- I'd never punched anyone in my life, but I wanted to punch him. We entered the cool night air and I sucked in several lungfuls before lighting a cigarette. "Jerry," Craphound said. I stopped, but didn't look at him. I watched the taxis pull in and out of the garage next door instead. "Jerry, my friend," Craphound said. "_What_?" I said, loud enough to startle myself. Scott, beside me, jerked as well. "We're going. I wanted to say goodbye, and to give you some things that I won't be taking with me." "What?" I said again, Scott just a beat behind me. "My people -- we're going. It has been decided. We've gotten what we came for." Without another word, he set off towards his van. We followed along behind, shell-shocked. Craphound's exoskeleton executed another macro and slid the panel-door aside, revealing the cowboy trunk. "I wanted to give you this. I will keep the glasses." "I don't understand," I said. "You're all leaving?" Scott asked, with a note of urgency. "It has been decided. We'll go over the next twenty-four hours." "But _why_?" Scott said, sounding almost petulant. "It's not something that I can easily explain. As you must know, the things we gave you were trinkets to us -- almost worthless. We traded them for something that was almost worthless to you -- a fair trade, you'll agree -- but it's time to move on." Craphound handed me the cowboy trunk. Holding it, I smelled the lubricant from his exoskeleton and the smell of the attic it had been mummified in before making its way into his hands. I felt like I almost understood. "This is for me," I said slowly, and Craphound nodded encouragingly. "This is for me, and you're keeping the glasses. And I'll look at this and feel. . ." "You understand," Craphound said, looking somehow relieved.