From there scaled its upper edge.

Past S’s hollowed-out, windowless pickup with flat tires.

To the stoop.

The minute I pulled back the screen door, S’s dog went fucking bananas.

S had said he’d leave the front door unlocked, so my plan had been to sneak in quietly.

But there went that.

How the dog was snarling between barking bouts, primed on its back legs.

Sounded like he really didn’t fuck with me.

Really hated me.

Like personally.

Maybe he smelled my rotting flesh.

Maybe he smelled my cowardice in the face of the elements.

Or maybe he sensed that I wasn’t a Decider, a Master, like the other humans he interacted with were.

That I was a pushover follower who bowed down and did as he was told, provided there was some dangled treat, like pussy or money.

That I was just like him.

And this unsettled him.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t stop.

Even when S came downstairs, groggy, shirtless and disheveled, and yelled at him to fkng quit it would ya—even then, he didn’t.

Based on S’s expression, I could tell that the offer had been perfunctory.

That he hadn’t expected us to actually take him up on it.

That, now that I had, his esteem for me, as a man, diminished.

Running on fumes and coffee from the pot S and his wife, K, sparked up at 5:30 a.m. sharp, E and I got to it.

Day one was laying out, measuring, and leveling the stakes.

Fifty on each side, at 5' increments, level and 30' from the one across from it.

Laying these down solid was critical as they’d mark where to plant the base beams that would support the curved-V crossbeams we’d assemble and erect last.

Once these foundational beams were set, they wouldn’t be able to be moved; and the thing wouldn’t stand up if they weren’t set correctly.

We used string to get the layout of the preliminary stakes right.

Took about all of a sun-blasted morning.

Couldn’t take off my long-sleeve synthetic pullover since it was holding the gauze wrap I’d wrapped my forearms with to absorb the ooze.

That, and shoddily wrapped medical tape that wouldn’t hold without the sleeves, given the sweat.

Ditto with ankles/feet: gauze/tape held in place by diabetes socks, which in turn crammed into shin-high wellies E lent me.

A lotta squishing going on.

Inside bc the above.

Outside given how muddy the field, with all of last night’s rain.

Come midday I was crashing hard.

E showing no signs of letting up.

I could see him on the far side of the field, going to town on a stake with a sledgehammer.

We’d started in the middle and were working outwards, away from each other. I was using a mallet.

Had too much pride to ask about lunch.