“Shhh,” Sweet hissed. A bullfrog croaked on a nearby log. A lazy firefly met its swift, sticky fate. A heavy, yellow moon danced behind shifting clouds of gossamer.
“Where d’it go?” Pistol whispered.
“I sayed shh,” Sweet reiterated, shaking his head. “Cain’t see it. Too dark.”
“Sorry ‘bout the bat’ries.”
Sweet sighed, “I know. I know. It sho’ looked funny when ya put it in yo’ mouth. But it ain’t so funny now, is it?”
“Mebbe if we cain’t see it, it cain’t see us.”
“Echolocation,” Sweet said quietly, absent-mindedly.
“Wha?”
“Ah, we could find it, if’n we had echolocation.”
Pistol pondered this statement, attempted to formulate a question, then decided it wasn’t worth it, instead going back to scanning the dark water around his legs.
With another sigh, Sweet explained, “Echolocation, it’s what some critters use to find stuff. They make noise, then figger offa that where stuff is…and ain’t.”
After a slow moment’s reflection, Pistol attempted, “Marco. Marco.”
“Pistol, the gator ain’t gonna’ say Polo.”