Siegrist is lying on his back behind a large rock in a field to hide from whatever that thing is. Siegrist clutches his little trowel in his hands as the creature hulks itself forward across the dirt. Its face is a dark and open-jawed hole. Its body a crook. Siegrist thinks maybe he will die. He will die out here while digging up purple and black mushrooms for the inks he makes. If I die, Siegrist thinks, the town will no longer have purple clothing, which is fine. And they will have to purchase black ink for their pens from the city. But ink is not really expensive, and they will be fine. He rests easy thinking this, that he is loved but not needed, that most things will keep on without him. Siegrist lies down and looks up into the sky and waits. The thing gurls and hacks its way forward. It moves along the field like this for some time as he lies there. It starts to rain and then stops. A leaf flutters down and lands on Siegrist’s shoulder. The dirt warms underneath him. He falls asleep there on the ground and wakes up as the sun is just past noon. He looks around. Nobody. Nothing. It’s gone. He thinks to return home, but hey, he’s got time. I’ll dig a few more mushrooms, he thinks. Hell, I’ll dig up the whole field.