There were the sounds of frogs. And the pop of cracking branches, from various nomadic creatures that had broken through the fencing, determined to cross rather than go around the enclave. Adjacent to them the airfield was quiet, abandoned after the Surrender. Several vehicles, now covered in weeds and vines slowly disintegrated right where they'd stopped when the Protein Bombs went off, their drivers having just melted right away. It doesn't take so long for nature to reclaim everything, they said to one another. It was a beautiful night, the absence of air traffic and the closed motorway let delicate sounds emerge from the warm night breeze. They had the windows open most of the year. The bat hive at the corner of the property sometimes fluttered, a sortie flying out into the yard to catch bugs. Once in a while, during a good moon, they would sit and throw pieces of bio-cake up into the air and watch the bats grab them right out of the night sky. In the morning the Recycler would come up the hill, rattling, the dogs pulling the wagon yipping and snapping excitedly. Then, when the shadows became shorter, they packed their bicycles — the large pockets and bladders stuffed with wares — and rode down to their shop at the Market. Soon smoke from the various open stoves drifted through, the owners preparing for the nighttime crowds. They lifted the broad, rough wooden shutters and put out their sign — a tall, brightly colored banner with two characters written boldly, meaning "STORIES FOR SALE". It was illegal, but then most things at the Market were.