“It’s looking more like death with every passing hour,” said Enoch. “Your life took a bad turn when you found us, American boy. You should never have stayed on. Look what it’s got you: a no-return ticket to the graveyard.” He nodded his head at the stones behind us, which weren’t just slabs of rock, I realized, but dozens of weathered grave markers. They were tilted in long rows against the tree’s trunk, greening with moss and so old the names had been worn away. “If Caul has his way, we’ll soon be as forgotten as them. And all of the hard, horrible things we’ve had to do will have been for
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