The fire winked it’s golden eyes through the shrubbery, inviting him towards its safe warmth. He heard the hushed voices of a group, the soft clanking of tupperware as he made his way through the trees. He stopped to listen to the voices, pausing when he did not understand a few lines, just like how he did not understand the words and lines from the books he had read. 

Is this the group Faber was talking about? Montag thought, peering through the bushes. There was a small group; no bigger than about 15, of wise, matured men. Meat cooked above the cackling flame, though they were not burning anything. The fire was warm, the opposite of the burning fires he started back when he was a firefighter; the fire was inviting. 

The world still softly rocked beneath his feet, the difference between the dry land and the calming river he left behind still fazed him. He scanned the small group. All of them are old men, with the exception of three people. They were fairly young compared to the old men, about a decade or two older than the age of Montag, who was 30 years old. He hid behind the bushed, pushing against the thin and sharp branches; He hissed when a fairly sharp branch swiped against him, drawing a little bit of blood. He held a wet sleeve to it. 

The cut isn’t that bad, Montag thought, It’ll stop bleeding in a second. 

“Hope… he won’t look…like Ophaeus had…lose all his progress.” Montag heard.

“He…be able to…” 

Again, the hushed voice broke the calming silence of the forest and Montag heard bits and pieces of the conversation, Though he was unable to make out sentences with the distance between him and the group, “Come on out, Montag.” The voice called out, “Let us help you.” He hesitated, freezing as the realization of them knowing who he was sunk in. How do they know my name? How do they even know who I am? He thought, panic ceasing him. Nonetheless, he hesitantly stood up and he left the safety of the shadows, taking deep breaths, “Hello, Montag.”

“How do you know my name?” He immediately asked.

“Oh, it’s on the news, I’m sure you know that.” An old man said, “When we first heard you trampling through the forest, we thought you were a fawn just learning to walk.” He said, “But even they are more graceful than a full grown man.”

Montag paused, he hadn’t thought he had been loud. Instead of saying that, he opted for asking, “Who are you?”

“Oh, we’re nothing more than the riffraff of nature.” The old man said, “I am Gerald. Granger had said to greet you while he took care of the younger of the bunch.” Gerald said, “Here, have some tea.” He gestured at Montag to sit down, which he did gratefully. His whole body was surprisingly tired, nevermind his legs. He sat down gingerly, wary of the beating heart of the fire. He stared at the steaming cup to the pot and sat on a flat pan which lay above the fire held by an iron pole. Nothing was on fire besides the burning sticks. 

He took a small sip before he muttered a small thank you, taking a small bit of pleasure from the burning sensation the hot tea left behind. It was a different type of heat and Montag was still confused as to how this kind of fire worked, how this new fire breathed and ate; It was comforting and inviting compared to the destructive and consuming fire that he had previously worked with.

Gerald studied the ex-fireman, a small smile playing at his lips as Montag stared at the built hearth on the ground, “The goddesses Artemis and Hestia watch over us.” Gerald started, “Prometheus blessed all of humanity with fire, but we have abused it. We like to use it to help, to rejuvenate, not burn and kill.” He shook his head, “That is a conversation for another time. We have much to discuss, but let us wait for Granger to come back with the girl.” Gerald said, “Let’s watch some television, hm?” He didn’t wait for a response as he turned on the small screened television, at least it was small compared to Montag’s last three tv’s that covered the wall. The news station was still going and it was at the river, watching the alive, but not truly alive, mechanical hound that started the chain of previous events.

Montag having to burn his house.

Montag killing Beatty.

Beatty wanting to die.

Montag escaping his former colleagues.

Montag planting the books within Black’s house.

Montag going to Faber’s.

Montag running.

The River.

He watched the TV intensely, confusion circling around his head when the hound returned down the alley and back down the street, “The hound-” 

“Watch.”

The group watched in silence with the exception of the three younger people of the group, who hung back. Montag felt their gazes burning the back of his head, starting a small flame of worry and curiosity. Who are they? Why do they look familiar? He thought, similar thoughts coming and going. He heard their whispers, but his gaze stayed trained on the TV as the reporter yelled and cried the directions the hound went, “It’s going downtown!” The blue glow of the tv shown on the groups faces, the humming of the TV and the reporter's voice, the crackling of the fire and the slight shifting from the group were the only sounds within the temporary camp. 

“They’ll catch Montag in a minute.”

“But I’m right here.”

“Listen. Watch. You will see. They’ll catch Montag right down this block. They are just building up suspense. The rising action before the climax, if you will.”

A voice cackled through a radio from the other side of the screen, “The hound is closing in!” The reporter proclaimed with fake enthusiasm. Silence filled the camp, eyes on the tv as the screen zoomed in on a man, though the picture was blurred on the screen. The hound’s dead eyes locked onto the man that the reporter had claimed to be “Montag”. Panic seized the man's face as the hound circled his prey, the spider legs clicking on the sidewalk, a clock ticking to the beat of the countdown to the man's death. 1 o'clock. 2 o’clock. 3 o’clock. 4 o’clock. 

“Now.” Gerald whispered. Almost simultaneously, the mechanical hound lunged, needles protruding from the spider legs. 5 o’clock. 6 o’clock. There was a sort of distorted grace with the leap, the timing perfect, the scene beautifully scripted. Tick. Tock. Clack. Tick. Tock. Clack. 7 o’clock. 8 o’clock. 9 o’clock. Only a few more seconds left for this unknown man's life. No one around to witness such a live action scene unfold; Only the hound, the victim, “Montag”, and the reporter. 10 o’clock. 11 o’clock. 12 o’clock…

The hound knocked the man to the ground, drawing a thin line of blood from the spider legs stabbing into the victims shoulders and abdomen. The scrape from earlier pounded as the man screamed. He screamed! 

The camera caught it perfectly, one could even think of it as a scene on their parlor walls, not entirely real, but not fake at the same time. The people would probably see it this way; Only a scene to be watched on their parlor walls.

The needles sank into “Montag’s” skin.

“The search is finished! Now onto our next-”

“Atropos is cruel, cutting that string.” Gerald whispered, “The Fates are cruel…Hell.” The sound of the television shutting off sounded in the empty, silent forest. “Hell.”

No one spoke. The TV was off. The Anemoi began to dance and the trees swayed to their tune; it almost seemed like they were orchestrating a dance for Gaea who was rejoicing the death of the victim. Maybe she was angry that the humans had ruined her body, the place where men and women resided. Maybe she was jealous that we didn’t appreciate her beauty anymore. 

Whatever the reason, it didn’t seem like Gaea cared, but the sky on the other hand, started to cry. It was a good few minutes before anyone spoke. Though it wasn’t anyone within the original group. It was someone from behind the group. “Welcome back from the dead, Guy Montag.”

“Granger! Welcome back! Hello.”

Montag turned and immediately his face whitened. He seemed like he could not breathe and it seemed that Boreas, maybe even his brother Zephyrus, blew through the small clearing. 

“Ah, hello, Selene.” An old man teased the girl that stood there. She wore a whispery white dress that seemed to glow and dance beneath the moonlight. 

She was exactly the same as when Montag first saw her; A slender milk-white face with dark eyes that saw things the everyday person would never be able to see with the way things were now. And…did Clarisse always have silvery hair? Did Montag even remember what her hair was like before? Whatever it was, it seemed like she was given a blessing by whoever was up there, “Mr. Montag?”

“Clarisse?” He couldn’t believe it. It was Clarisse Mcclellan. The one Mildred had said was dead. The one where she was supposedly run over by a too-fast car. “You’re…alive?” He just couldn’t believe it. The girl that had once said that she was ‘seventeen and crazy’.

“Well, yes. I believe I am, at least.” She nodded, “My family and I retreated back to the forest after the firemen and police became too close.” She smiled softly, looking at the TV, “It looks like we’re in the same predicament, Mr. Montag.”

“How-” Montag paused. It made sense, if he thought about it. He had just witnessed someone die in place of him. Maybe the girl was the same.

“Let us talk.” Granger said as he sat down, “I am Granger, author of a book called The Fingers in the Glove; the Proper Relationship between the Individual and Society.” He introduced himself, closely following with the others of the camp, “This is Fred Clement, a former occupant of the Thomas Hardy chair at Cambridge before it had become an Atomic Engineering School. And he is Dr. Simmons from U.C.L.A. and is a specialist in Ortega y Gasset, a Spanish philosopher. Professor West had done quite a bit for ethics before it became an ancient study now for Columbia University quite some years ago.” He paused, scanning over the group and landing on another man, “Reverend Padover here had given a few lectures thirty years ago and lost his flock between one Sunday and the next for his views. He's been bumming with us some time now. And you met Gerald. He had studied and written about Greek and Roman mythology back in Greece and Rome before he moved here to the United States. I’m sure you met Clarisse, maybe her family. But they didn’t do anything big except read and listen to some books after running into us. But, they’re an essential part of the group, since they’re willing to learn.” 

“Nice to meet you all,” Montag said, “But…I don’t belong here.”

“Hm? You want to join us though, right? That’s why you sought us out.” Montag nodded, “Well, what do you have to offer?” Granger said, not questioning why Montag felt the way he did.

“Well, nothing anymore. I thought I had part of the Book of Ecclesiastes, maybe even a little of the Book of Revelation, but that is gone now.”

“Where is it?” Granger asked.

Montag tapped his head, “Here.”

“Well that’s perfect!” Gerald grinned, “We only have one Book of Ecclesiastes.”

“Well would you look at that!” Granger said, patting Montag on his back, “You just made yourself important! Guard your health, 'cause if Harris were to die, you are our Book of Ecclesiastes.”

“But I don’t remember anything from the book!” Cried Montag.

“Nothing is ever lost, Mr. Montag.” 

Granger nodded in agreement, “Clarisse is right. Humans have photographic memories. It’ll come when needed. Plus, we have ways to get those memories. We all are books, I am Plato’s Republic. Marcus Aurelius? Mr. Simmons is Marcus. We all have memorized a book or two. We are Schopenhauer, Einstein, Mr. Albert Schweitzer, a very kind philosopher indeed. We are Aristophanes and Mahatma Gandhi and Gautama Buddha and Confucius and Thomas Love Peacock and Thomas Jefferson and Mr. Lincoln. We are also Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John."

The group chuckled, grinning softly, “You see, Montag, we are all of these books, all of these authors. But, we are also book burners.” 

“It can’t be.” Montag whispered.

“It is. We read the books then burn them, scared of what would happen if the government were to find us. We can’t have any books on us if we are checked by the firemen and the policemen. We’re afraid that we will be found out. If we are, all these books would die with us. Micro-filming wouldn’t work; we’re always traveling. We couldn’t afford to come back. It’s better to just use these old heads of ours. There’s always a chance of discovery.  We’re all parts of history, the World Wars, the Civil Wars, the Greek and Roman Empire. We’re here and they’re there. What do you think, Montag?”

Montag paused. What do I think? “I think,” He started slowly, “that I've been blind trying to go at things my way. I’ve planted books in firemen’s houses and setting off the alarms.”

“You did what you had to do, but now you have a smarter way to go at things.” Granger said, “If it was carried out on a national scale, it would have worked beautifully. But our plan is smaller,” He smiled, “simpliar, and if I’m being honest, we think it’s a better plan.” Montag nodded, agreeing, “All we need is to keep our books, our knowledge, safe so that one day they could be typed again.”

“That's…a big goal you have there.” Montag stated.

“Of course.” Gerald smiled, “‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars’. I’m not sure who said that. Many people have said it; And multiple sources show that multiple people have claimed it as their own quote.”

“What does it mean?” Surprisingly, it wasn’t Montag, ever the eager learner, who asked the question, it was Clarisse.

“Well, I think that it means to be ambitious. Even if you don’t achieve what you hoped to, you’ll have accomplished something at the end of the day.” Mr. Simmons said. Clarisse hummed, looking up at the stars. The moon seemed to smile down on her as Clarisse was illuminated by the luminescence from Luna. A soft smile played at her lips as the Earth's constant companion circled them, the crescent shape standing out amongst the small stars.

“Would you like to join us, Montag?” Granger asked, “We could use someone like you.”

“Yes.”