I take it off. I unzip my pack to put it away, but just as I begin to stuff it inside, something catches my eye. Something sharp and shiny. A knife. The butcher knife from Jenna's kitchen counter. How did--

"What's wrong?" Allys asks.

I look up at her. Did she put it in there? Jenna? Surely not Kayla. Am I being set up for something? Or did I get it myself during one of my lapses? I steady myself against the truck and finish stuffing my coat in the pack. "Nothing," I answer. "Let's go."

As we walk, I plan on ditching the knife as soon as I can--or maybe I should just return it to the kitchen. I hold the pack closer to my side. Who put it there?

In the distance I see a grassy hill dotted with wildflowers. Maybe that's where Jenna gathered the wildflowers for Lily's grave. At the base of the hill is a tilled field and a truck. Just beyond that are two men lifting a long pipe and walking it to a trench. A third man stands near the truck. Allys explains that she and Jenna want to plant another vegetable garden, maybe even a few citrus trees, but they need to get some water flow to the perimeters of this field.

"And we're always trying to find some sort of work for the Non-pacts who camp out on the edge of the property."

"You allow strangers to live on the property?"

"They're not exactly all strangers. A lot just pass through, but some have been around for quite a while."

But still strangers. Strangers who could have gone into my room. As we approach, the workers look over at us. I can already tell they are sizing me up. Allys greets the man near the truck who seems to be the one in charge and then introduces me. His face is heavily lined, and his eyes have a permanent squint, like he has spent years in the sun.

"Bone," he says. "Mr. Bone to you."

There is no shaking of hands. A nod of the head. A grunt. A shovel in my hand. The niceties are over. Allys winks at me when Bone turns away, which I assume is a message that his behavior is normal. Yeah, in some alternate universe. She waves good-bye, saying she will return later with more supplies, and then leaves me alone with the cheerful company.

The two other men ignore me. I notice they are both thin and don't seem particularly experienced at what they are doing. One drops his end of the pipe. The other curses at him and then, for no apparent reason, they switch ends, like one end of the pipe might be lighter than the other. Bone puts me to work at the opposite end of the field from them, digging trenches. It is mind-bogglingly primitive. They send people to Mars, but they still dig trenches by hand?

Our spider broke down, Allys had explained just before she left, and we can't afford another right now. She pointed to a large long-legged machine near the truck that actually does look like a spider. It digs trenches, tills rows, and hauls materials on its back--a handy little arachnid--except for today. After half an hour of digging, I take off my shirt. I should have done it sooner. The shirt is drenched. After another half hour, I put my shovel down to go check out the spider. There has to be a better way.

"It's not working," Bone calls when he sees me walk over to it.

"I can see that," I answer. I walk around the beast, trying to find where controls might be hidden.

"Those trenches aren't going to dig themselves," he calls again.

"No, they aren't," I call back. The body of the spider is four feet across, and each jointed leg is about eight feet long. Finally, on one of the back legs, I find a slight indentation. I press it, and a panel unfolds.

"I told you, it doesn't work."

I hear the gritty rise in Bone's voice, but this time I don't respond. I look at the panel, which has a dozen small lighted squares, each with a printed word in a language I don't recognize. How many commands could there be? Go. Stop. Dig--that's the one I need.

"He told you. Doesn't work. Don't touch it." The voice is right behind me. I turn around. All three men stand just a few feet away. Easy for them to say. They're not the ones digging ditches. I turn my back to them and touch the first light on the panel. The spider responds, groaning, rising, coming to life. I touch the second light on the panel. Its front legs snap, like it is stretching. I touch the third light and the spider's second set of legs dig into the earth. Bingo. I turn back to my peanut gallery.

"Would you look at that? Looks like it's working, after all. I guess it just needed the right--" I feel something touch my leg and I whip around, but it already has me. A clamp on its back leg locks onto my ankle. "What--"

And then it takes off like a crazed horse. I fall to my back and am dragged over row after row of tilled earth. It's moving so fast, I can't reach up to touch the panel. I flop like a rag doll behind it. Dirt flies in my face, my mouth, my eyes. I try to grab hold of something, but there is nothing to grab. It moves through the tilled field and starts up the hill, dragging me over grass, brush, and rocks. At the crest of the hill, it stops dead like it has either taken mercy on me or reached the end of its leash. Good spider. I lie there, rubbing grit from my eyes, spitting dirt out of my mouth, and looking up at a blinding sun. My back hurts, but my ego hurts more. I sit up and press the first light on the panel and the spider groans, its legs bend, and it releases my ankle. When I stand, I see it is not just the crest of the hill. It is the edge of a cliff. I look over at the straight drop down. At least two hundred feet below are some jagged rocks and a black seething river. I step back from the edge.

Yeah. Good spider.

I limp back down the hill without making eye contact with the men below, who I know are watching me. I spend the next three hours digging the trench without complaint. Sometimes there's not a better way. Sometimes there's only the hard way. I guess they already knew that. And it is hard. When dirt turns to clay or rocks, I put my shovel down and swing a pick instead. My trench finally connects with the one that the three men are laying pipe in--a much longer trench they must have dug on another day.