They come as a troop, more soldierly than I have yet seen, nine Keepers running three abreast. Both male and female, they’re dressed in thin, tight silver shirts and pants that appear to be hybrid armor and clothing. They shimmer as they run. Each has the same long black hair twisted into a bun on top of his or her head. They are big and scary and stop fifteen feet from us, watching warily. One of them, the collar of her shirt lined in a shimmering red, calls out to Lisa in their native tongue. We’ve gathered together in a clump, a pretty pathetic group. Dad can’t stop rubbing my back, as if he’s not sure he can believe I’m here. Lisa responds in English, presumably for our sake: “Please, friend Keeper. We need safe passage to a font.” The Keeper is tall, fierce looking, and I notice that she has a paint streak of that same red down the ridge of her nose. She glances at the open door to the Lock and squints suspiciously.
