Intent

He’s only been out a minute or two. The slightest hint of burning still floats on the brisk air. He touches his face. Sure enough, his eyebrows are gone, again. Fuck, he thinks.

When the annoyance subsides he gets up to survey the location: gentle, swept hills of dark, wet grass on all sides. An occasional gray rock, having broken through the surface eons ago, somehow enhances the deep rolling green that owns this place.

He breathes deep. The ocean is nearby, and earlier, sheep. New Zealand, he guesses, or Scotland.

“Alright,” he says, “back to the lab,” and starts northward.