They are in the middle of the woods. Half the trees spiked, half to go, his pace has been perfect but there are still so many to do, and the worry that he will not be done in time, that he will miss one of them, the wrong one, the one that will be cut first, never goes away. When he finally falls asleep at night he is hammering, when he is fucking the body he is hammering, when he is reading he is hammering, hands so hard now, a layer of skin as tough as wood. The canvas of his sneakers worn completely through at both sides, hoodie filthy, he washes it while standing in the shower fully dressed, the water black between his feet. Now stumbling in the ferns, shin skinned on the raw edge of a log, the new leaves on the youngest trees lashing his eyes. Rash of tick bites on his spine. The endless ring of the hammer hitting the nail, he hears it in his sleep, second pulse in his brain, who else. Understands this sound. It cuts through the night. And now P. lying down in the dirt, Xie looking over his shoulder to see, What are you doing. Rest, beloved. Are you fucking kidding? Pulling the next nail from his pack, two more between his teeth. Press the tip against the tree, chest-high; if he drove it through his own chest, at this angle, the nail would graze the top of his twelfth vertebra. Deep breath. Holds it. The nail falling through the birch. The next nail where his pelvis would be; the last at the ankles. Even if the tree was cut at the base, somehow missing the first nail, the others would stop the machines in a mill, making the tree impossible to process. He clips the heads of the nails, collects the metal in his pocket. Moves to the next tree. Adjusting the pack to the opposite shoulder but fumbles, dropping it, nails splashing through the ferns, Goddamn it. Kneeling to push them back into the pack. While he’s there, make the X at the roots, quick hard cut, P. turning onto his silver stomach: if they are meant to be destroyed they will be destroyed, he says. Xie incredulous. If we don’t finish this, then yeah, they will be. Next tree. Are you saying it doesn’t matter either way? How does that make sense? P. quiet. I should just, what, go to bed while someone comes in here and chops it all down? Three more nails. I mean, what is your point. You carry a sword but you don’t even use it. What, beloved, do you want to use it? P. asks. Jesus fucking Christ! Xie shouts. Just get up and help me! P.’s hand suddenly around Xie’s wrist, squeezing. Xie yanks his arm away, sending the back of his own wrist straight into a trunk, hard, and without thinking he turns and strikes the birch with the hammer, shouting, so much anger left in that aching shoulder, enough to break through the bark, show the deep gold beneath. Startle of birds against the clouds. Xie panting, dropping the hammer, both palms immediately against the tree. Forehead to the back of your hands. Why did you call me here, Xie asks. What do you want me to do. P.’s hands on his hips from behind. That breath that is not breath on his neck. Night heavy on his head. I didn’t call you, beloved. You called yourself.