“Preference,” Shane said, and I didn’t ask whose. “The company likes to hire them to make sure we don’t get caught with our pants down, trampling sacred relics or whatever. Someone wants to make a fuss, our ass is covered.”

He showed me the surveillance screens, showed me the safety protocols pinned to the wall, showed me how to take pressure readings, showed me spill monitoring. “Not that you’ll have to do any of that stuff,” he said. “Right now it’s mostly just containment, cleanup, keeping an eye on the personnel.” He logged in to the computer, gave me the company password. “Classified information,” he said. “They don’t give it out because of domestic terrorism.” He laughed. “So don’t go spreading it around.”

“To who?” I asked. “Doesn’t look like I’m making any fast friends.” Shane punched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’ve missed your sense of humor,” he said. He told me to call him if I needed anything at all.

He was right. The job was easy. I sat on my ass in the trailer surrounded by cameras, the big computer staring at me from a folding table in the corner, coffee going all day, space heater buzzing. I wore my insulated coveralls for no reason, so I unzipped them to get some relief. I even took off my boots, which stank. My hands ached to whittle, and I searched my pockets before I remembered I’d left my knife in Perley’s camper, next to the chair we’d nearly finished. So I watched the screens.