Someone had piled pliers where Kate looked. It was night, I'm positive, look around you I said! Kate called me from the field where she stood like flowing mead in fields of corn that flowed like she: it was empty but she hailed me to see, and did I: a pile of pliers, roasting in fog. I lit a Fatima; bugs molded where I sat. This had gone too far. What could a plier pile mean to a cat? Or was I even a cat anymore, anything beyond those, these, fields of rows where Kate in them standing saw ahead looming tools lobbed from duster planes onto corn flows, down, mordant in the dust? And I saw it was bloody dust. Dammit I'm done, Kate, I said. Let's get the hell out of here, she said. To where? I thought; though I had a feeling that, by the time this was all over, I'd be sorry I asked.