Dan explained it, though not entirely to Maul’s satisfaction. Injustice was rampant. It was no one’s fault the way you’re born. They were right about him, he admitted to Dan in private. He was a fairy, but in the broadest sense. Dan was fine to confide in. Very troubled. It was part Dan’s fault, this mess, but not all, not most. They were both semi-innocent bystanders, caught on the crosswalk at the moment of a terrible car crash. Shrapnel got them and his mules. Wrong place wrong time. But mostly no one listened to anyone. Eyes darted. The sun beat down and cooked men on ridges. It was not hospitable. A carcass. A little naked thing like a deer. He tried to remember what the missing mules looked like. They discussed it. Dan couldn’t summon them either. Nature could be very ugly. Saul was on his knees under the stars, but they were just great burning balls of gas. Still, after that, after the most impressive crimes, Saul was back with God again.

Maul lagged frequently. He said he had a big shit coming. All those beans. He slipped down from the dun and built rock piles in threes, the universal number of send help. On his watch he dragged the fire apart into three smaller fires. No one came for them. The explorers brought flags with them. They had no flags. He asked about the map. He should’ve brought another coat. The villain had taken his. He’d been a scout and could navigate without Polaris or the Big Dipper. The canvas ripped as they struggled to pitch the cook tent. Each watch crouched under the fly with his rifle in the chair. A .270. A .243. His own .22. Snow fell. For Bowman’s shift, he rose as if he never slept. Was he a man at all?

“Why doesn’t she have a shift?” Bowman asked once, as Ella slid into her sleeping bag. It was no longer zipped to Saul’s.

“Why do any of us still bother?” Maul said.

Watch was a sham. Watch was a show.