Richardson was dead, his throat ripped apart by Simon's jaws.

Simon himself lay in a corner, still in dog form and covered in blood. Most of it was Richardson's, but not all. He was quick for an old man, and skilled with that knife. He looked up and saw his parents staring at him, but when his eyes met theirs, they looked away.

Slowly, painfully, he began to change back.

"Are they okay?" he asked once he'd transformed enough to speak.