The sheep, returned from their milking, baaed. As Bay tied back the gates of the pens, my flock rushed forward, bells jingling, into the courtyard, where they began to crop the fresh grass, watching me sidelong with their gold eyes.

“Come with me, Bay,” I said. “You and me and the sheep.” If a couple was allowed, I could show my interest.

“You’ve got it,” he said.

“I know I’ve got it,” I said, and flushed.

“Some other day,” he said.

I turned my back on Bay and I walked west to the fresh pastures. The sheep ran to me, no longer needing any coaxing. I saw the new couple come out of the long house to watch. I felt proud. “C’mon, sheep!” I called to the dawdlers, and they coursed forward to catch me. We brushed through the tall grasses, stirring up butterflies and grasshoppers.

I came home for lunch. Now two people followed me on the meal line. An April meal, foraged: ramps, young poke salad, nettles, morels. And Dumpstered: passion fruits, bananas, clementines, so out of place with their aromas from other biospheres. Queen talked to the newcomers about reinforcing the storage house. “We tend to get around to reinforcing things only when they are about to collapse,” she said. “Dice says we need to make room in the storage house for supplies for our next action. We might go to the headquarters of this coal company and put on a show for them . . .”

I hadn’t heard anything about this. I wondered if I was going to be excluded from the next action too. Maybe because I couldn’t kill the lamb: maybe that had been my test. Maybe because, like Bay had said, everyone thought I was half-assing. Maybe Dice had overheard Queen and me talking about the fake world. I slipped into a seat next to Queen and introduced myself. “I’m Harmony,” I said.

Neither of them laughed at my name, even though I was still growing into it.

The woman smiled. “I’m Lindsay. This is Roger.”

They weren’t supposed to tell us their fake-world names.

Lindsay’s face, and Roger’s, looked creamy and bright—clean faces, I realized with a start, used to sunblock. I guessed Lindsay was wealthy, maybe because of her Blundstones, or her slippery attitude. After lunch, Queen and I showed them the barn. “How lovely,” Lindsay said when presented with the pigs, whose faces were covered in purple yogurt. She suppressed her distaste for our lives, politely.

We climbed up to the hayloft. “This,” Queen said, gesturing to the hay-flecked beige mattress, “is where y’all get to sleep!”

Roger smiled. Lindsay raised her eyebrows.