Durkin could sometimes go a whole season without pulling one wrong. When he did screw up, he’d mark where he made his mistake, then make sure next chance he had he’d pull the thing up right. As if his life depended on it.

After thirty-one years of weeding Lorne Field, he usually needed no more than a few seconds with an Aukowie, his hands deftly finding the right spot on the weed to grab, and almost instinctively knowing which angle to yank it so it slid out easily from the ground. Still, with thousands of these Aukowies pushing up, it would take him close to four hours to complete a full pass of the field. By the time he was done a second wave of Aukowies would be waiting for him. Maybe not as many as when he first arrived, but with the added fatigue factored in, his next pass would take close to another four hours. Add the same for his third and final pass. By then the Aukowies would be done for the night.

He had walked back and forth length-wise three times across the field pulling out hundreds of Aukowies, hearing them all screaming shrilly as they died, when he came across what at first sight looked like a daisy. He stood disoriented for a moment, blinking and wiping the sweat from his eyes. He had never before seen a flower growing in that field of death, and the fact that one could actually survive out there buoyed his spirits. Actually made him feel good. He stared at it, admiring it, until he realized what he thought were petals were actually groups of pincers turned inside out.

Up to new tricks, you little bugger, he thought.

With the toe of his work boot he nudged the thing. It didn’t take the bait, though, staying perfectly still and maintaining its daisy-like camouflage.