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You could believe whatever sounded convenient, because that’s what drives people to stay sane. Father put me inside the room where there are no windows, the room with just this one door that locks from the outside. I hear them talking outside the room. They are scared. They are panicking. I sense their restlessness. My mother, the first-rate Loyal, I’ll gnaw her throat first when I get out of here, slurp whatever comes out of all her ragged holes.

Day of the Builders

    T his happened long before the initial signs of sickness from the outsiders rippled across my village. You should understand by now how my people were easy prey because most of us were trusting, greedy for finery, and readily distracted by new things or any semblance of finesse.
    Being the only one in my village who could converse in the language of the Builders, I helped catalyze what the learned ones called modernity . I met the Builders at the gates that day. Oblivious to the sweltering heat, one of the Builders took pictures of the towering natural rock formation we used as landmark and general lookout post. There was nothing significant about the typical karst formation, except that according to one of the Builders, it indicated how the area used to be an ocean floor.
    That’s fascinating , I said. And I meant it. I found it remarkable how one could deduce that from a rock formation.
    Their leader introduced himself by first giving his title. Doctor , he said, but of a different kind, not the doctor who heals . He had a white and unnaturally even set of teeth. He appeared sincere when he smiled. He also offered his hand to me, a gesture I found unnerving. His hands were clean, the nails neatly trimmed, while I had not washed my hands and there was encrusted dirt under my fingernails. He did not flinch when I clasped his proffered hand. Or he may have willed himself not to cringe.
    I showed the Builders around the village. They oohed at the fossilized tree trunks near the lake. They aahed at the marvelously pronounced stratified layers of rock and earth exposed by years of weathering. It is obvious to me and to the elders, however, that the Builders seemed unexpectedly at ease, as if they already knew their way around the village. For example, they weren’t surprised, or even pretended to act surprised, when I led them to the Pit of Hell—a natural hole in the rocky ground where fire had been burning for hundreds of years. It was as if they expected that I would flaunt my village’s access to the underworld.
    That’s natural gas , the doctor who claimed to be the type who could not heal, said with no hint of emotion. In the face of such fiery display and overpowering smell of rot, he explained stolidly, It must have ignited at some point. And since the area is incredibly rich innatural gas, the fires never died out. That foul odor you’re smelling—that’s sulfur .
    Devonian shale over here , a middle-aged man wearing eyeglasses exclaimed. I did not understand until much later the significance of his discovery. You won’t believe what I found in the gates alone , another whispered. He was close, so I heard him perfectly. Dickinsonia costata, intact and perfectly preserved. They must have thought to shelter it from the elements because they believe the markings have either divine or magical origins. To prevent damage, I think we should superglue it in situ and foam-wrap the rest .
    Another Builder conferred with his companion, What do you think of this, Greg? Does it look like a fossilized fern of some sort?
    I don’t think so. It looks like good old dendrite to me. See those fissures across the rock? But take some samples just to be sure .
    All the while, I marveled at their clean-looking clothes, their neatly trimmed nails, their short hair. Like many people in my village, I was used to being disheveled, with no care to whether I wore ill-fitting clothes or hadn’t combed my hair. I looked at the woman