Zenza, my supervisor, was collecting locusts in the next room. Those had yet to win me over. Too many legs. I harvested enough grubs to fill my container, sealed it, and stacked it neatly on top of the other seven boxes.

“Sleep well,” I said, and pulled the shade cloth back over the trays.

Next week, we would be visiting the fish breeding tanks outside Halowith. The week after was the mushroom tunnels in Berai. Reverend Somme’s new greenhouses were nearing completion, and on top of everything else, we still had all the regular paperwork to file. Progress reports and evaluations for Somme, forecasts and projections for Civil Obligations, applications for increased water supply from Water and Sanitation. To my profound discomfort, the last now needed to be addressed to Reverend Belia Verje. Olwen Kisme had been martyred yesterday.

I tucked my gloves into my belt and carried my grub boxes to the wagon. Zenza emerged from the locust room as I set down the last one.

“Ah, you’re done,” she said. “How are they?”

“Healthy, but we might want to keep the soil a little wetter.”

“I’ll put in a request for additional spraying.” She picked a stray locust leg out of her curls. “The spurwings have spawned very well. Creepy little bastards.”

“They aren’t my favourites.”

She passed two of her boxes up to me. “It’s the red eyes. And the legs. And the weird noises they make when you grab them by the thorax.”

Her boxes buzzed ominously. I set them down beside mine, careful to keep the lid sealed. If the locusts got loose, they could decimate our remaining crops. Zenza climbed onto the wagon beside me, and the driver flicked his reins, encouraging the mules forward.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You’ve been even quieter than usual.”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“Any plans for Moon Tide?”

“I thought I could work through some of our outstanding grant applications.”

She favoured me with a look that was part disgust, part admiration. “On your day off? Really?”

“Nothing better to do.”

“That’s … kind of sad.”

“Do you have plans?”

By the time we reached the city, I possessed a comprehensive understanding of my supervisor’s love life and menu plans for the holiday, as well as an update on her opinion of everyone else in the department. I nodded at appropriate points in the conversation, and made various sounds of approval or concern. This was the foundation of my relationship with Zenza; she talked, I listened. We got along well enough. I think she liked me, even if she thought I was a little odd.

The driver brought our wagon to a stop behind a queue of people at the Upper East gate.

“Here for Moon Tide, presumably,” said Zenza. “I hope the inspections don’t take too long.”