Thornan crouched behind the old adobe house and whispered human words to the wall. "Hello. I am friend. No hurt." His deep voice shook the dust. He wanted scared people to trust him, so he practiced every morning where no one could see his big claws fumble the small sounds. He had built a bright wooden bar out in the open sand, with a thatched roof and tall stools. Bottles of cool juice lined the shelves. It was a place humans could walk up to without fear, a landmark they could see from far away. At sunset, footsteps came. A small woman in overalls and a red bow stepped close, then froze when she saw him. Thornan's heart pounded. He lifted a clay pot full of bright flowers and held it out with both hands. "For you," he rumbled. "Friend." Anita Morales did not run. She studied his face, then the flowers, then the careful way his claws cupped the pot. "Well," she said softly, "someone's been practicing." She took the pot. Her small hands brushed his. She sat on a stool at his bar and patted the seat beside her. Thornan sat, and the wood groaned. He had done it. One human trusted him. But behind her, in the dim light, he saw more shapes gathering at the dunes — watching, waiting, not yet sure.