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can. Send Boone to his homestead. No more fields today. When I get home, you and Temple better be in the pit, or so help me.” His voice is so low that it shakes. It rumbles. It growls like a stormy wind. He puts a hand on my arm, and I feel that it, too, shakes. I turn and run as fast as I ever have. I heave myself onto Heetle and yank Temple into the saddle, roughly, by one arm. She screams at the bloody sight of me, starts to ask questions, but I give her Papa’s pinched-finger move.
    â€œPapa says to go home, Boone. No more fields today. Don’t leave the homestead.”
    And then I kick Heetle gently and she’s off like the wind.

6
    TEMPLE AND I HAVE BEEN in the hiding pit for hours. So much for studying poultices and tinctures. Aunt Billie and Papa fight in fierce whispers. I don’t understand one gum thing that’s happened today.
    Not.
    One.
    Gum.
    Thing.
    My face is still a bloody mess. It still burns from Papa’s slap.
    Temple’s hand is on my arm, patting out a beat to a song. I know she’s trying to calm me and keep me from panicking in the dark. Keep my breathing steady. My gogs are on and set to night sight, but I know I’ll have to turnthem off soon. The solar batteries haven’t held their charge properly in over a moon, so that now they’ll work for barely a few minutes if they aren’t in direct sunlight. I’ve been clicking them on every time I feel the dark crawling up my neck. Then I turn them off again. Then on. Click, click, click, click . One, two, three, four. Fight, fight, fight, fight. Every now and then Temple’s stomach will growl to add its own beat to our maddening new song.
    The metal creaks as Aunt Billie peeks into the hiding pit. “Get on out of there,” she says, throwing the metal sheet wide open and holding her hand first to Temple and then to me. We climb out, filthy from the red dirt, the blood, and from the hard riding this afternoon. Papa glowers, his handbows scattered on the table. A glass of spirits sits in front of him.
    â€œThe Red Crescent hangs low tonight,” he says, his voice sounding like crunching scrub. “Aunt Billie feels it is too dark for an ambush.”
    I swallow. My throat is dusty and dry. “Papa—” I start, but he holds up his hand.
    I pull my thumb to my mouth and chew the nail. It’s the same color and shape as the Red Crescent outside.
    Papa starts to speak and then stops. He takes a sip of the spirits and grimaces. Then he lifts his eyes to look at me. His hair, matted from sweat and grit, falls across his forehead in a black slash. When his eyes finally meet mine, they’re tired and round, not angry slants like this afternoon.
    â€œThe Cheese you saw today is named Strength of theSuns—A’alanatka of the Kihuut. I call him Fist. His dactyl is—was—named Hoot. I was feeding Hoot some biscuit crumbs when you shot him through the eye. After, I should add, I tried to stop you.”
    â€œStop me?” The buzzing bewilderment in my head just keeps growing. “You were being eaten!”
    Papa flails his arms out to the side, crosses them over his head, and flails them out again. His movements are sloppy with spirits.
    â€œThis means ‘stop,’ child. It means ‘whoa.’ It means ‘wait.’ It does not mean ‘shoot at me freely until you can shoot no longer.’” Papa’s eyes flash, his hands ball into fists.
    â€œI was . . . ,” I say, swallowing hard, “I was protecting you. Protecting the family. Being a leader, making quick decisions.” I nearly whisper the last part. My face burns as I look at the floor.
    â€œA leader ?” Papa barks out a laugh that cuts inches off my stature. “In your childish wish to thrum your nose at what girls ought to be doing . . . in your fool-headedness, you grazed Fist and gave me that.” He sloppily points to his hat hanging