Peggy slept. Undisturbed. And from his initial silence, the stooped-man began to sing. As creatures went, he was a cautious one. Certain of his footing, but pausing now and then to cock his head. Listened. He walked and listened and walked and listened and then he thought he heard a thing. He had no name, but he had a tune -- and he pledged it little by little to the ravine around him in brief breathy whistles. Chirrups, really. None of his people had ever had names -- identified instead by sequences of notes. Humming; whistling; clicking of tongues. Bizarre music. But his was exceedingly sad, because he sang it for no one. He forever pinged a world that didn't ping back. He was the last, and his tune -- thrust out into the open air -- was something of a swan song.

-- Peggy slept, and music wheedled its way into her dreams. Brassy trumpets, kicking off at unplanned intervals. Music fit for dancing, her heart decided. The mind followed suit, and she barely knew she was alone in a cave in an uncharted city. She barely knew she was anywhere but the Stork Club, a week next. Dancing, as promised. Her heartbeat sped to match.

The Tuneful Fellow came to a sudden halt. His breathy whistle raised; echoed; presented itself. There was a body with a drum trapped inside of it, he realized. Somewhere near. His head cocked again. Maybe two.