Sam asks John, "How bad was it? Were any of us hurt?" Us?

"A deputy," says John. "And one of the Wicker boys. They were killed."

Sam shakes his head. He looks small and soft next to Grandma.

"And the other brother is missing. We haven't found his body, or he ran off. Hopefully that's all. He got scared and ran."

I would never run off in battle. Never.

John rocks back and forth, saying. "I've got to go, folks. I'm trying to warn people, and we're not supposed to talk about this on the phone." He walks onto the porch. Grandma and Sam thank him for coming, and he tells us, "Now you people take care." Then he straddles his bike and pumps the pedals, working his way through the soft dust. He's moving like a bike rider in a dream, at half-speed. Something about him real frantic, but real slow, too.

The three of us watch the news at ten. The sun is down and the heat is finally starting to seep out of the house. Grandma is sitting on the sofa, like always. Sam is squatting against a wall, against a cushion, not close to her but not far away either. And I'm on the floor, legs crossed. I'm squinting through the snow on the little screen. The news doesn't mention anything about commandos or explosions. It's going to be hot tomorrow, I hear. And for the rest of the week, too. Then they go to a commercial, selling headache pills with a pounding hammer.

A helicopter pa.s.ses overhead. Thump-thump-thump.

When it's gone, Sam says, "Rose," and I realize how n.o.body else says her name with that voice. It's not a jumpie voice, or a human's. It's just Sam's. Then he tells her, "I know what it is. It's the new Chonk-squeal-squeal-oonkkkk council. They hear rumors about people like me, and they're looking for an issue to pull all the tribes together."

"Politics," she says. A low, tight voice. "Exactly." He gives me a little wink, nodding to himself. "I bet that's it."

Now the sports comes on, the baseball scores too fuzzy to read.

"From now on," he says, "I'll stay on the farm. No more visits to the neighbors. No more working by the road."

Grandma says, "Perhaps that's best."

Then Sam takes a deep breath and says, "Timmy? Do me a big favor. Go to my house and get those old pictures. Bring them to me, please."

I do it. I go out the front door and around, past the barn and the fancy combine-everything huge and dangerous-looking in the darkness-and I slip into the cottage, working fast. The photos feel slick and odd, made of something besides ordinary paper. Keeping quiet, I come back the same way. I hear Grandma saying, "I'm not giving you up." She sounds angry and strong and certain. "n.o.body's taking you anywhere. Do you hear me?"

I'm up on the porch, and she stops talking.

I come inside.

Sam has pulled his cushion up beside Grandma, rearing back against the sofa with his long feet beneath the coffee table. "That's the boy," he says, taking the photos. He doesn't look at them. Pulling a long match from his chest pocket, he strikes it and sets them on fire in a candle bowl. All of them. I watch for the dead jumpie and the boy, only Sam's put them facedown. It's just the slick non-paper burning.

And he tells Grandma, "Nothing will happen. They found nothing, and they're dead."

Grandma says, "All right," and nods. Once.

Then the fire is out, and he tells me, "Go dump this, please."

I'm out on the porch, throwing ashes off the rail, and Grandma says, "You didn't need to do that.

Why did you think you needed to?""To end any doubts," he says.

"Whose doubts?"

"Not mine," he says. Then he says, "This is my home, Rose."

Rose. Just the way he says it makes me shiver.

I grab the rail with both hands, watching the sky. Mars is the pink star in the east. Before too many more years, it'll turn white with clouds. Sam's told me. His people are flinging comets down at it, sometimes two a day, trying to make it livable. And for a moment, without warning I feel jealous of the humans that might be up there, imagining them throwing those comets, having that much fun every day.

"I've been here my entire life," says Sam, "and I won't leave you."

"You're d.a.m.ned right you won't," says Grandma. Then she adds something too soft for me to hear, despite all my trying.

We go to bed, and I fall asleep for five hours, or maybe five minutes. Then I'm awake, flat on my back and completely awake. Why am I? There comes a sound from downstairs. A bang, and then a thud. Then more thuds. I sit up in bed, my heart pounding. People are coming upstairs. Suddenly my bedroom door flies open, and some guy in jeans and a torn shirt stands in front of me. He's got a funny look on his face, tired and sad. He keeps his empty hands at his sides, very still, asking me, "Where is he?" with a tiny voice. "The prisoner...where is he...?"

I don't say a word.

Someone else says, "Who is it? Who's there?"

"A boy," says the guy.

"More!"

He moves back, and a commando fills the doorway. He is huge, both tall and thick, wearing nothing except for battle armor and an ammunition belt. He's holding a big gun as if it's a toy. It's a mean looking thing with a curled clip filled with rocket-jacketed bullets, and he's pointing the barrel straight at me.

"Where is the prisoner?" he says to me.

I can't talk.

"Tell me. Now."

I have no voice or breath, my heart beating behind my eyes.

The commando's face is huge and wild, big eyes shining at me. He looks maybe twenty-five. He seems ready for anything. When Grandma's door comes open, he wheels around. And then the guy with him-the missing Wicker brother, I guess-suddenly bolts. I hear him on the stairs, half-stumbling, and the commando-the human traitor- aims fast and fires. My bedroom is lit up by the flashes. I see myself sitting in my bed, sheets pulled up around me. Then the firing stops, and I smell rocket exhaust hanging in the air. I can feel how n.o.body moves. n.o.body is running down the stairs. And now the commando looks at Grandma while pointing the smoking barrel straight at my head.

"You're holding an illegal prisoner of war," he says. "Tell me where to find the navigator, or I'll execute this child."

"Don't hurt the boy," says Grandma. Her voice is dry and tough and angry. "Sam is out back. But he doesn't want to go with you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

The commando smiles, telling us, "Thank you." The gun drops, and he adds, "I don't want to fight old women and boys. So if you promise to stay here, I'll leave you here. Safe."

I want to believe him.

"Get the h.e.l.l out of my house!" Grandma screams. "I'm warning you! Get out!"

She scares me, talking that way.

But the traitor doesn't notice us anymore. Stepping back, he melts into the darkness. I hear him on the stairs, then running through the kitchen. And Grandma picks up the phone in her room, saying, "Dead," and then, "s.h.i.t," as she slams it down again.

I stand, creeping out into the hallway.

Grandma's wearing a long white nightgown, and she's half-running. "Come with me," she whispers.

"Now."A dead body lies on the stairs. He scares me. I've never seen anyone dead, and all of a sudden I'm tiptoeing through his blood, the stairs warm and sticky under my bare feet.

"How could that man know about Sam?" I ask.

"That boy must have told him." She kneels and looks at me, then says, "Run. Cross the road and hide in the corn. Whatever happens, stay hidden."

The dead boy was a traitor for telling. I never would have told. Never.

"Go on now! Go!"

I run out the front door, out across the dusty yard. I get as far as the pine tree, stopping there to breathe. That's when I hear Sam and the commando talking. Fighting, they are. They're beside the barn, and Sam is saying, "What did you do to her?" He's caught up in one of the big man's arms, trying not to be carried. The commando tells him to be quiet. "I haven't hurt anyone," the b.a.s.t.a.r.d lies. Then he says something in jumpie, a jumpie-built box implanted in his neck leting him squeak and squeal like a native.

And Sam turns still and quiet, letting himself be carried, the commando taking him to the pickup and throwing him inside, then climbing in after him, and with both hands he tries to hot wire the engine.

A big engine starts up.

It's too loud and deep to belong to the pickup. The air seems to throb. The commando's gun is beside him, then it isn't. Sam has a good hold on it, I realize, and suddenly the two men are fighting for it.

I can see them when the combine's headlights come on. And the big machine lurches and starts to charge.

Everything's happening fast and crazy.

The commando wrestles his gun free, then turns and fires out the window. Sam slips out the pa.s.senger door, bouncing faster than I ever thought possible, trying to reach the barn. The commando starts chasing him, but not fast enough. A scared old jumpie can cover ground even on Earth, at least for a few feet. In he goes, and the big barn door starts pulling shut, and the commando reaches it too late, pulling at it with his free hand while he turns and fires at the charging combine.

Gla.s.s breaks.

Headlights die.

I can just see Grandma behind the steering wheel, crouched down low. The mechanical arms are turning and turning. Her target tries to run but he picks the wrong direction. There's a utility shed beside the barn, and he gets caught in the corner, shoots twice, then throws the gun and turns and leaps higher than seems possible or right. He's lived all his life with jumpies, I realize. He's too young to have been taken prisoner during the war. Trying to be a jumpie has given his legs extra bounce, which isn't enough.

Because instead of leaping over the spinning arms, he falls into them, his body flung back into the barn's wooden wall just as the combine strikes home with a big sharp crunch.

I hear him scream, maybe.

Or maybe it's me.

Then the scream is done, and Grandma turns off the engine and climbs down. Sam comes hopping out of the barn. Both of them are wearing nightclothes. They hold each other and squeeze, saying nothing.

And I walk past them, making for the barn. I'm curious to see what happened to that poor stupid man.

Only Sam sees me first and says, "No, Timmy. Come back here, please."

I turn and look at them. Then I walk over to them. I'm not scared or anything. That's what I'll say if they ask. But all of the sudden I'm sort of glad to be stopped.

I won't admit it, but I am.

Soldiers come in their helicopters and trucks, then pick up and leave again taking the bodies with them. The officer in charge warns us that nothing happened here. Everything needs to stay secret. He shakes my hand then Grandma's. And, after a pause, Sam's. And he tells my grandmother that she can expect a confidential commendation. Then as he climbs into his helicopter, he tells us, "Our enemies underestimate us. They don't appreciate the gift of our ordinary citizens." Or something like that. I can barely hear him as the helicopter starts revving its engines.

By then it's morning, and time for breakfast.It's just the three of us, and Grandma makes pancakes and sausage. I drown everything under thin syrup. Eating is more wonderful than I could ever have guessed. I keep feeling happy and lucky, glad about everything. Grandma's wearing a bright country dress, and Sam's already in his overalls. n.o.body says much until Sam finishes his cakes, puts his fork down and announces, "Once I can make the arrangements, I'll contact my old family. Just to tell them that I am well and happy."

He says it, but I don't believe it.

Neither does Grandma. She says, "You can't be serious. What in h.e.l.l will that accomplish?"

"How many others are there like me?" he asks. "Dozens? Hundreds? But as long as we're secrets, we're dangerous. Not just to us, but to our adopted families. Our adopted species."

Grandma stares through him, saying nothing.

"I want to show my people that it's possible to coexist with humans. At peace." He smiles like a human, and like a jumpie, his ears lying down flat. "Until last night, I didn't know that I was important.

But since I am, I need to do the right thing."

And after that, n.o.body says much of anything.

Done with dishes, we drift outside. Sam studies the barn and combine, talking about what needs to be fixed first. I'm pushing at the splintered wood, looking at the dark red smear but never touching it.

Then Grandma says something to Sam. I can't hear what. And she comes to me and says, "Would you do me a favor, Timmy? Go play with your soldiers out by the road. Stay there until I say otherwise.

Would you do that for your old grandmother?"

I ask, "Why?" and suddenly wish I hadn't.

She gives me a look, level and strong.

Then Sam calls to her. "Rose," he says, taking little hops over toward the cottage.

"Play by the road," she repeats. "Now."

I start walking.

"And don't tell anyone," she warns me, her hard old face looking into me. I don't have any secrets.

Not with her, I don't.

"Yes, ma'am," I say.

She follows Sam.

I go to the ditch and find my soldiers buried in the dust, and I play with them without liking it. They're just toys, I'm thinking. And the plastic jumpies don't even look real. But all of the sudden I get an idea. It just sort of comes to me. And I get up on my feet and climb out of the ditch, walking until I've got the cottage in sight. Just one peek, I'm thinking. Just that. Only my feet stop moving all at once, and I get cold inside. And then I turn around and start running back toward the ditch, running faster than I've ever run in my life.

After last night-after what I saw Grandma do last night- there's no way I'm leaving my little ditch.

I hunker down with my soldiers, and I stare at their worn-out faces.

Only one face in this ditch is scared, I tell myself.