He calls Jo before he remembers that she and Leni are out of town, somewhere in Florida for a family reunion Jo’s dad insisted she attend, Leni tagging along, they’d made a collective gagging noise but went anyway and now no ride to the meeting, he has to take his bike, thirty-five miles, legs dead by the time he arrives. Breathless at the bottom of the steps, someone with blond dreads glancing at him, Lakota or Lakita or whatever her name is. Dang, did you run here or what? No, Xie says, I just need to talk to Peter, is he here? Rubbing his face with the cuff of his hoodie. Lakota shrugs. He’s on the phone. Xie glances around the room. Fewer people than the last time he was here. No snacks, no tea. A thick crack in the concrete floor, where a rug used to be. What happened? he asks. Lakota smirks. Didn’t you hear? And Peter materializing at his elbow, hand on Xie’s back, Hey, farmer. What’s going on? Xie asks. We’re losing the space. Someone complained about drugs in the bathroom. Which weren’t even ours. They told me today that they’re canceling our lease. Smiling through his anger. I’m sorry, Xie says. Peter shrugs. We’ll find somewhere. We always do. What did you need? Xie hands him a scrap of paper torn from the book. Peter unfolds it. Eyebrows up. How many? I don’t know, a lot. Ten boxes, maybe more. Peter folds up the paper, puts it in his pocket. When do you need them by? Just, um. As soon as you can. Peter nods. No problem. Soft slap of Xie’s arm. I’ll drop them by your house. If you have a minute, we were just gonna talk about the situation in Alabama. The what? The coal project. Oh, I—I can’t stay, I have to go. You sure? Alias mentioned you might be interested. Xie flushes. I’m—I am, but, I have to— Twitch of Peter’s brow, impatient, I’m just asking for fifteen minutes, Xie. It’s important. Xie rubs his head with both hands, anxious breath, shaky, I’m sorry, I just. Suddenly on the verge of tears. I have to run. Peter touching his arm. Hey, what’s wrong? Xie shaking his head, emphatic, Nothing, I just—I really have to go. Peter drops his hand. Okay. I’m sorry, Xie says again, turning to flee, quick jog up the stairs, out the door, Peter’s eyes at his back.

An hour home, mouth dry on the dark roads. Walking his bike through the birch. All the things that make their homes in the wood, the birds, the foxes, the rabbits, the deer, the primrose, the fern, that helpless army, do they know when something is coming, even before it is here? Do they pray? What is the afterlife of a tree slaughtered by a human. A sheet of paper. A table. The beam of a house. A smooth polished bowl, from which the murderers eat their soup.