“Hunter!” she cried, “You don’t mean that!”
“Watch this, Dahlia,” he snapped back. He rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out flint and steel. He stood and stalked over to his hut.
“What are you doing?” she called.
“I’ve done it before, I can do it again,” he snarled without looking back. He began striking the flint viciously, spraying sparks into the tinder-dry thatch. A few caught. He gave them a few steady puffs of breath to fan the little tongues of flame.
“What are you doing?” Dahlia cried again. “Why are you burning your house?”
The flames spread quickly now. Hunter grabbed a blazing palm frond, jogged a few steps, and threw it end over end into the middle of his little patch of corn. In seconds, the dry leaves and stalks began to crackle and smoke.
“Are you insane?” Dahlia scr
