Without much conviction, he added, “That was what was intended with the honorarium. But you’re right, eight thousand dollars ain’t what it used to be. When I started as Caretaker it was a good enough salary but, well, now things have to be fixed. I’m going to bring it up to the town council. They’re going to have to fix it. It’s only right that they do.”

“Dad, what are Aukowies?” Bert asked.

“They’re bogeymen,” Lester said with a knowing smirk.

“No, they ain’t bogeymen. Bogeymen are imaginary. Aukowies are real. I kill thousands of them every day.”

“Sure you do,” Lester said with another eye roll.

“You bet I do. I pull thousands of Aukowies out of that field every day. Weeds don’t have a mind of their own like these things do. They don’t try to cut off your fingers with razor-sharp pincers. And they sure as hell don’t scream when you kill them.”

“They scream?” Bert asked.

“If you listen carefully enough you can hear them. Sounds kind of like a mouse in a trap.”

“Do they look like weeds?”

“When they’re small maybe. But if you know what to look at you can tell they ain’t no weeds. You got to remember, though, I pull them up before they get a chance to mature. A one-day-old Aukowie looks a lot different than an eight-day-old one.”

“What do they look like after eight days?”

“They don’t look anything like weeds then or anything else for that matter. After eight days they’re ready to rip themselves free from the ground. Nine feet in length by then, big razor-sharp fangs everywhere. Bloodthirsty suckers who move like the wind. Not much anyone could do about them at that point.”

“If they’re not weeds, why don’t you bring one home?” Lester asked, some nervousness and uncertainty edging into his voice.

“Can’t do it,” Durkin said. “Contract specifies all Aukowie remains must be burnt in a stone pit on the eastern side of Lorne Field, with the ashes first mixed with lime and then buried. But I can bring you there. Let you see for yourself.”