He pushed the wheelbarrow back down to the Black. At midafternoon he placed the last boulder in the blanket pouch closest to the engine compartment. All pouches held, and looked like lead-filled balloons crashing to Earth.

He trudged into the shack and drank more water and ate more peanut butter, his upper back aching with each swallow. When he finished, he laid on the bottom bunk and stretched, his feet touching the logs.

Okay, you’ve got the weights in place. Now how do you plan to pull that thing down? he thought.

You can’t do it, Matthew, the little voice said. You’re going to need help. Go on, go out there, tie the rope to the frame and see what happens. Give it a pull. Waste your time and energy on that. And speaking of energy, how much food do you have left? It can’t be much.

He wasn’t worried about food. If he ran out, the orchard was full of tart apples. Sure, they might be dried and shrunken and horrible, but they were still sustenance. There were hundreds of the tart bastards littering the ground—enough to last for weeks.

Matt tied a section of thick rope to the rusty frame—right in the middle of the blanket pouches. The knot was almost impossible to tie. Then Matt walked the rope out to the big aspen and wound it around the trunk. Passing the trunk, he walked the rope halfway back to the truck. All he needed was a good pull and gravity would do the rest, right? The hanging weights should improve his chances, although he wasn’t certain. His limbs tingled with anticipation. This could be it. IT.He had a feeling. He also had a feeling the Being was watching him.

He sighed, wrapped the end of the rope around his waist and gripped it with both hands. Then he pulled and watched the rope pick up slack. As he dug his heels in, his neck veins bulged. The truck didn’t budge.

Matthew! Go inside now! the little voice said.

And then he heard it, booming footsteps and chopping air.

He dropped the rope and locked the huge door behind him. Out the window over the grungy couch, the rope lay slack against the aspen trunk. Then the end of the rope which he’d had around his waist lifted slowly into the air like a cobra out of a wicker basket. The rope hung there, limp end sagging, and then fell to the orchard grass. A groaning noise came from his truck. He turned to the front window and peered in between the plywood. His poor truck shook and the front passenger tire spun in the air like a puppy doggy-paddling while held over water.

At once the truck stopped shaking. The twine and weights held.

You irritated it, Matthew, the little voice said.

“No shit?” he said.

Maybe you should try this at night, the voice said.