Sméagol crouched on wet stone and sniffed the air. The ring had passed this way. Someone carried it out of the mountains, and Sméagol meant to get it back. He wanted it more than fish, more than sleep, more than his own thin skin. But three days of rain had washed the trail clean. He could not tell which way the thief had run. "It's gone, precious," he whispered. "The nice smell is gone." He pressed his nose to the ground and found only mud and rot. He turned in a slow circle. Trees crowded him on every side. Every path looked the same. He had lost it. The word made him shake. "Lost, lost, lost." Hunger clawed his belly. He had not eaten since the mountains. He crawled toward a dark hollow between two roots and found a grotto sunk into the earth. Moss covered the walls. Something inside had once been a home. He dragged himself in to hide from the rain. Against the far wall leaned a painting in a heavy frame. Sméagol froze. He knew the faces. His mother stood behind, her hand on a boy's shoulder. His sister bared her teeth. And there, in the middle, thin and staring, was Sméagol himself, long ago, before the ring, before the caves. The painter had made them close. Their eyes were sad. "We knows this place," he breathed. His hand shook as he touched the frame. This was the river country. This was where he was born. He had wandered in a circle without knowing it. The ring had drawn him home. He stared at the painted river behind the family. Water. His people had always followed water. A thief fleeing the mountains would do the same. Water meant fish, and roads, and easy walking. The trail was not truly gone. It had only moved to the river. Sméagol laughed, a wet and ugly sound. He grabbed the painting and turned it toward the grotto's mouth, matching the painted bend to the land outside. The real river lay to the east, past the trees. "That way, precious. The thief goes where the water goes." He crawled back into the rain with the certainty burning in him. He would follow the river until it gave up the ring. He would eat the fish he caught along the way, one after another, forever, and he would take back what was his. But the river was long. He did not know how far ahead the thief had run, or whether the thief still lived, or who else hunted the same shining thing along the same wet bank. Sméagol only knew the direction now. He crept east through the dripping trees, hungry, and did not look back at the sad faces on the wall.

Sméagol crept east along the river before dawn, following the water like his people always had. The thief had passed this way. He was sure of it now. He kept to the mud and the reeds, sniffing the bank for any trace of the ring. Then the sky changed. The sun rose over the far trees and struck the open bank. The light stabbed his eyes. He hissed and pressed his face to the ground. The riverbank had no cover here, only flat stones and low grass. He was out in the open, easy to see. His skin burned. He could not hunt the trail like this. Anyone watching would spot him at once. He scrambled toward a stand of reeds and pushed inside. The stalks hid him, but they slowed him too. The thief was walking free in the daylight while Sméagol crawled and hid. "Losing ground, precious," he whimpered. "The nasty sun, it helps the thief, yes it does." Every hour of light was an hour the thief gained. A shadow crossed the water. Sméagol froze. Something large sat on the far bank, black against the bright stones. It had folded wings and green eyes, and it watched the river the way a hunter watches. A dragon. Sméagol had seen carvings of such things, but never one breathing. It did not move toward him. It only stared at the water, waiting for fish. Sméagol's belly cramped. Fish. The dragon guarded a shallow pool thick with them. But the dragon lay in full sun, and Sméagol could not reach the pool without crossing the open bank. He watched the black shape strike the water and pull up a wriggling fish. Then another. "Please," Sméagol called from the reeds. His voice shook. "We only wants the shade, precious. And a fish, one little fish." The dragon's head turned. The green eyes found him. "You hid all morning," the dragon said. His voice was flat. "Weak eyes. Sun hurts you." "Yes, yes," Sméagol whined. "The light burns us. We cannot follow in the light." The dragon looked back at the water. "Follow what?" "A thief. He took my precious. He walks the river ahead of us." Sméagol crept one step closer, still in shadow. "You sees things from the sky. You could tell us where he goes." The dragon was quiet. Then he spoke. "A man passed here two days ago. Alone. He kept to the north bank. Walks by night now. Hides by day." His tail flicked. "Like you." Sméagol's heart jumped. The thief hid from daylight too. That was why the trail felt cold. "By night," he breathed. "We hunts by night, precious. The sun stops hurting us both." The dragon flung a fish onto the mud beside the reeds. "Eat. Then wait for dark." Sméagol seized the fish and swallowed it whole. He would not fight the sun anymore. He would sleep, and rise when it fell, and chase the thief through the dark where his eyes were strong.

Dark fell, and Sméagol woke hungry in the reeds. The dragon still lay across the river, a black shape under the stars. Sméagol crawled toward the shallow pool, ready to hunt at last. His eyes were strong now. The night belonged to him. Then he smelled something rank on the breeze, and every muscle went stiff. Something large moved along his own bank. He heard claws scrape stone. He heard slow breathing, low and wet. It was hunting too. It swept its head side to side, sniffing the mud where Sméagol had walked. It was tracking him. Sméagol pressed flat and held his breath. The thing came closer. He could not outrun it. He could not fight it. If he stayed, it would find him in the reeds and drag him out. He was the fish now, and this bank was the pool. His clever plan to hunt by night had made him prey. Across the water, the dragon watched. His green eyes caught the starlight. Sméagol met that stare and made his choice. He splashed into the shallows and swam hard for the far bank, kicking through cold water. Behind him the beast crashed into the reeds and roared. Sméagol reached the mud and scrambled up beside the dragon. "Help us," he gasped. "It hunts us. It smelled us out." The dragon rose. He did not look at Sméagol. He looked at the thing thrashing across the river. "It followed your trail," the dragon said. "Now it knows I am here." "Then send it away," Sméagol begged. The dragon spread his wings. He opened his mouth, and blue fire lit the whole river. The flame struck the far bank and burst against the stones. The beast shrieked and fled into the trees. The fire faded. Smoke drifted over black water. The bank was empty. Sméagol sagged in the mud, shaking. "Safe," he breathed. "You saved us, precious." But the dragon folded his wings and stared downriver, and his voice went hard. "They saw the fire." He pointed his snout at a faint glow far along the water. Lamps. People. "Men live near here. They fear my kind. They will come with iron." He looked at Sméagol at last. "You brought a hunter to my river. Now I cannot stay." The glow spread. Sméagol saw it clearly now, a cluster of light through the trees. A house stood there among the leaves, its faceted walls catching the fire's last shine, vines wound thick across the glass. Shapes moved behind the bright windows. Doors opened. "The thief walks that way," the dragon said. "Toward the men. If you follow him, you follow into their hands." He crouched to spring skyward. "I go where no one reaches for a spear. You go alone now." Sméagol clutched the wet mud and stared at the glowing house downriver. The beast was gone. But the way ahead was full of people, and they were awake, and they had seen the fire.

The dragon flew off, and Sméagol was alone in the mud. The glowing house stood downriver among the trees. Men had seen the fire. They would come with iron. But the thief's trail ran that way, past the lamps, past the spears. Sméagol could not walk it in the open. He would be seen. He would be killed. So he waited for the men to sleep. Hours passed. The lamps went dark one by one. Sméagol crawled along the bank, low and slow, keeping to the shadows. His strong eyes marked every root and stone. He reached the glass house. Vines wound thick across its faceted walls. He pressed himself flat beneath a window and listened. Inside, someone still moved. A cellar door stood open at the back. He slipped through it and down cold steps. The room smelled of dried herbs and old wood. Jars lined the shelves. On a table sat a spray of purple blossoms in a cup, magenta berries bright among them. Sméagol froze. Someone was counting. A soft voice named things one by one, spoon after spoon. A small creature turned from the shelf. Her eyes were huge and blue, her hair pale and wild. She was like him, thin and grey-skinned, but she wore a mended dress and held a jar in both hands. She did not scream. She looked at him the way she looked at her shelves. "You came in through my cellar," Precious said. "I count what leaves this house. Now I must count what walks in." She set the jar down. "Are you the one who took my things?" "No," Sméagol whispered. "Sméagol takes nothing. Sméagol follows a thief. A ring, precious. Gold. Someone carried it here, down the river." Her face changed. She stepped closer. "A ring." Her voice went low. "He wore a ring when he left. Six months gone. I could never say what he took with him." She pulled a chair to the table and sat. "Tell me who you hunt. Maybe he is the same one who emptied my drawers." Boots thudded above them. Men's voices called through the trees, close now, searching for the dragon. Light swept the cellar window. Sméagol dropped behind the table, shaking. Precious rose without a sound. She lifted a floor board near the wall. Beneath it lay a dark space, just big enough. "Get in," she said. "They will search my house. They always do." Sméagol crawled into the hole. She lowered the board over him. Above, the door banged open. Boots crossed the floor. Precious spoke to the men in a flat, tired voice, naming her missing spoons, her empty jars, until they lost patience and left. When the house went quiet, she lifted the board. "They are gone," she said. "You are past them now." She looked hard at him. "But you will not find your thief alone. And I want to know what he stole from me."