Peter looks into his beer. Sure. Lots of things. Deer? Peter nods. Deer, rabbits. Foxes. Ducks. Ate it all, too. Leni shivers. Peter squints at Xie. Any shooting near your place? No. You know who owns those woods? No. I’ve never seen anyone out there. Alias fishes a chunk of tempeh from his cup of chili, chews. Enjoy that while it lasts. Catching Xie’s eye. Xie looks away. What did it feel like? Leni asks, quiet. Peter leans into the fire, elbows on his knees. What did what feel like? Killing something, she says. He scratches his beard. Brief look at the ground. Good, sometimes. A pause. Leni tucks her hands into her coat sleeves; Jo kisses the side of her head. The fire snaps. Alias tilts the lip of his cup into Peter’s. Hey, keep up the good work, brother. And you, farmer. I have high hopes for you. Xie wondering what Peter’s told him: about the mink, obviously, everyone here knows about that, but what else? Nothing else to tell. Xie goes to get more chili, trying to warm his hands around the hot cup. Someone pulls out a guitar; the Zapatistas sing, half-ironic, the lyrics to “Which Side Are You On?” while Peter and Jo march arm in arm. Finish the food, edge away. Up the hill, through the fence. Crawling into the backseat of Jo’s car, smell of pine and smoke, faint scent of french fries from the cooking oil Erik siphoned into the gas tank from the bottles in Xie’s garage. Brush the snow from his hood, then rest his cheek on his knees, sneakers on the lip of the seat. Wait for P. Try not to think about. Peter with a gun. A knock at the window. Alias leaning heavily against the roof, forearms framing his face. Can I come in? Xie opens the door. Scoots aside. Strong smell of beer. You don’t drink? Alias says, when Xie refuses his cup. No. You off yeast or what? No, I just. Don’t. Usually. Alias nodding, so tall his hair grazes the roof, flannel shirt tight around his arms, jeans worn white at the knees, white long johns beneath. This is someone who U-locked his neck to a bulldozer. Who helped bomb a chicken processing plant in Texas. What are you doing here? Xie asks. Me? Just hanging out. No, I mean. Xie gestures, Back here, in the States. Alias shrugs. Just seeing friends. Taking some time off. Am I allowed? Eyebrows. Xie flushes. Yeah, of course. Alias’s slow sigh as he turns in to Xie, hand against the side of his neck, thumb circling his cheek. Xie ducks, shoulder up, understanding too late that look at the fire. Cold out here for you, chickenbones, Alias sings. Little smile, last of the beer, settling his cup on the floor between his spread knees. How old are you. You wanna fuck shit up or what? Save the whales? You should be back there trying to score some pussy.