I shut Jo’s gate with an echoing clang and stare out at the lane. The heath shimmers in the warm wind. The gorse is beginning to flower, sunny yellow. It’s a beautiful day, and I have half a stubbed-out cigarette waiting for me in the hollow of my oak tree.

It’s probably better that I not see anyone. They’re all so contagiously scared, and fear makes me angry, and when I’m angry, I’m not in control of myself, and I’ve got to be, always.

I don’t want to be the bad guy. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

One quick break, and then I’ll go back.

I walk quickly, almost a jog. Halfway across the heath, I spot the illegal campers. It’s too distant to be sure, but I sense them turning toward me, their bodies going still like caught animals. They don’t wave, and neither do I.

I glance back one more time, and it finally hits me—why it felt so strange when I met them yesterday. They’re young. Fighting age. I’ve gotten so used to our population change here, all the old folks and children, so many people in the middle now gone abroad. Half the population of Lute, at this point. In the weeks after the second draft, it had felt like I was back at Gran’s retirement community.

These campers are in their twenties, healthy, fit enough to travel here, to hike and build fires. Why aren’t they in the war?

I close my eyes and pick up my pace. It’s not my business, not my problem. None of this is.

By the time I reach the grove, there’s a roaring in my ears, the wind and my pulse shouting over my thoughts, shoving them away.

I slide between the trees, blink blearily at the leaves shining like stained glass above me, and locate my little stub. Lighting it with a match, I lean against the smooth trunk of a neighboring oak and draw several quick, woozy drags.

Only then do I hear it.

The sound. A low drone, so soft and uniform it feels like it’s coming from the ground. The hair on my arms rises.

My fingertips sear sharp—the match has burned down too low. I bite my lip, wave it until it’s dead, drop it, and suck my finger, all in silence.

When I shift my weight, I feel a stick crack under the ball of my foot. I hear my own breath and I hear them. More than one person. Their voices don’t waver, don’t pause for breath, one unnatural, long note.