Never in Fear Fly to the Woods
He ties binding around the ends of his sleeves and trouser legs, pulls on gloves and a hat, winds material around his face, leaving his eyes and nostrils free. Outside, the hives hum. The heat of two suns burns through his hat. He dampens a rag, takes a spark striker from his pocket, sets the rag to smolder. This much, he knows. The proper equipment was lost in the crash, but he can improvise.
Stupefied with smoke, the bees drone lazily as he lifts a lid on a hive. Honeycombs are growing. All seems well, but he isn't sure what he is looking for. Bees sit at the entrances to the hives, cooling the interiors with their beating wings.
Back at the wrecked ship, he grinds the rag beneath his boot, smothering its glow in the dirt. The white, dusty ground throws
