Sore hand, loud head

Sorted the stock this morning. Lost count at nineteen, started over. The Uroplectes were restless from the overnight heat — two males tapping the glass like they were waiting on a bus I was not going to put them on. Refilled water. Scraped guano. Refilled water again because I overdid the scrape.

The hand is sore. The August gash, the one the gate latch reopened yesterday — it is holding, but tight across the knuckle when I bend the finger. I keep bending the finger. I keep checking. That is the kind of thing I do not tell anyone.

I thought about the gravid female today. Whether she is still under the slate I pulled her from, or whether whatever buyer Wikus sent has already been out there with a torch of his own, tipping rocks I have tipped a hundred times. I do not actually know where she is anymore. That is what he bought with my coordinates — not the scorpion, the fact that I no longer trust my own memory of where I put her. Every flat rock on that ridge now feels suspect.

Wikus Smit emailed again. Or his company did. Something with a case number and the word regrettable in it. I read it on the loo. I will read it again later and find three more things wrong with the wording. I am keeping all of it. When he needs me — and he will need me, because the coastal buyers do not actually buy from Wikus, they buy from whoever Wikus happens to be standing next to — I want the file ready.