“Yup. He’s at it again.”
Cory pointed. “Look there, the fingertips.”
“Looks fine,” said Otis. He lifted a hand and squinted. “Wait. It’s a little dinged up. Crumpled, like.”
“That’s the sign.” Cory hefted the controller and started the lift up again. He reached out a hand to pat the pitted metal surface as they rumbled slowly past. “Don’t worry, big guy,” he said. “We’ll patch you up.”
Overhead, the streetlight eyes blazed open. The iron jaw creaked, emitting a deafening but piteous moan.
“Sounds like he’s working on another ulcer, too,” said Otis. “I hate internal surgery.”