In the quietest hours, when the raids are done and the pups curl like commas at his side, he listens to the night and hears the price of stories. To be the clever one is to be called on to be clever again and again—then cleverer still. The tale becomes a burden as much as it is a boon, a script that must be reenacted to keep faith alive. He does it anyway, because love demands improvisation and because courage, in his world, often wears a ridiculous grin.