Dogs weren't that way--once he'd fought a crippled stray from a pack, and he'd got it by the tail and swung it around and brained it on a lamppost. Dogs ... squirrels.... * * * * * Steven had some dim, almost dreamlike memory of dogs that acted friendly, dogs that didn't roam the streets in packs and pull you down and tear you apart and eat you alive; and he had a memory of the squirrels in the park being so tame that they'd eat right out of your hand.... But that had been a long, long time ago--before men had started hunting squirrels, and sometimes dogs, for food, and dogs had started hunting men. Steven turned south and paralleled the bridle path, going always wherever the cover was thickest, moving as silently as the breeze. He was going no place in particular--his purpose was simply to see someone before that someone saw him, to see if the other had anything worth taking, and, if so, take it if possible. Also, he'd try to get a squirrel. Far ahead of him, across the bridle path and the half-mile or so of tree-clumped park that lay beyond, was Central Park South--a sawtoothed ridge of grey-white rubble. And beyond that lay the ruin of midtown Manhattan. The bomb had exploded low over 34th Street and Seventh Avenue that night six years ago, and everything for a mile in every direction had been leveled in ten seconds. The crater started at around 26th and sloped down to where 34th had been and then up again to 40th, and it glowed at night. It wasn't safe to go down around the crater, Steven knew. He'd heard some men talking about it--they'd said that anyone who went there got sick; something would go wrong with their skin and their blood, and they'd start glowing too, and die. Steven had understood only part of that. The men had seen him and chased him. He'd gotten away, and since then had never ventured below Central Park South.