He crossed the line, leaving the gate open behind him. He kept his hands in the air, fingers spread. He could see his breath ghosting before him. It really had gotten cold. That wasn’t getting better soon. He wondered if he maybe should have said he had a heater.

The front door opened and the man came out. He was tall and thin with a stupid, cruel face and a long-barreled assault rifle aimed at the center of Amos’ chest. It had to be illegal as shit under UN gun laws.

“Hey!” he said with a wave. “My name’s Amos.”

“You said.”

“Didn’t get yours.”

“Didn’t say it.”

The man walked forward to take cover behind his pretend military transport.

“Nice rifle,” Amos said, keeping his hands up.

“Works too,” the man said. “Strip.”

“Come again?”

“You heard me. You want to trade with me, prove you’re not hiding any weapons. Strip!”

Well, that was unforeseen, but what the hell. Wouldn’t be the first guy he’d ever met who got off on feeling powerful. Amos shrugged off his shirt and heeled off his shoes one at a time, then dropped his pants and stepped out of them. The cold air bit his skin.

“Okay!” Amos said. “Unless I’ve got a pistol up my ass, we can agree I’m not carrying, yeah?”

“Agreed,” the man said.

“Look, if you’re still worried about it, you can get someone to come out, look through the clothes here. You keep the gun on me, make sure I don’t try anything.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

That was a good sign. Made it seem more likely that the fella was on his own here. He glanced up at the attic. If there were a second person, that would be the place to put them. Tiny gray-brown wings fluttered into the attic like the answer to a question.

“Where’s this cycler?”

“About three miles down the road,” Amos said, pointing with his thumb. “I can have it here in an hour, easy.”

“That’s okay,” the man said, lifting the rifle to his shoulder and sighting on Amos. The end of the barrel looked as big as a cave. “I can get it myself.”

Before he could pull the trigger, something moved through the field of his yard like a gust of wind. Only this wind had teeth. The man staggered back, then yawped in confusion and pain. With her chemical hormone blockers having faded in the days since they left the Pit, Peaches moved too quickly for Amos’ eye to follow. It was like she’d become an angry hummingbird. The man fell to his knees, his assault rifle suddenly gone and one of his fingers broken and bleeding. As he curled to grasp his broken hand, the gun stuttered, opening the man’s chest along the side.