“Different vocabularies,” Rust says, with something between a toss and a shake of his head. His drawl broadens, hovering at the edge of sardonic, as he recites, “'You taught me language, and my profit on it is I know how to curse.'”

And he listens for the creature's walkie, how that emerges in its growling, snarling tongue.

But his focus is back when the creature speaks of its pets. The whistles, the collars—of course. He begrudges Salamanca a thought: how quick he was to blush. Eager. “Why?”