I am pilfering a drink from the hose of one of the settlers’ homes (something we are expressly forbidden to do) when the yellowjacket attacks: its legs dangling insidiously and its wings vibrating dizzyingly so that I find myself snatching up my trimmer in a panic and swinging it like a bludgeon (instead of just turning it on rationally and targeting the wasp carefully); the result being that while the fist-sized insect is vanquished a nearby window is shattered—which of course brings Taylor running (though fortunately not the Captain).
“Jesus, man! What are you—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, watch it,” I say, quickly. “There’s a wasp on the ground—somewhere. There, by the spigot.”
A moment later he pauses to examine it, notably breathless from the run. “Holy s**t—look at that.” He prods it with
