Edwards and Green start digging at the grbum with their penknives. Not particularly efficient. Johnson kicks at it with the heel of his loafer; even less efficient.

I stand guard, watching for movement in the bushes, then turn to watch their pathetic scrabbling. “Come on; what the **** is wrong with you people. Dig, dig!”

They say that if you want something done, you gotta do it yourself. I jam my bony elbow into Johnson’s side and take pleasure in seeing him wince. “You, watch the trees. Tell me if anything moves.”

Down on my hands and knees, I pull out a trowel. Yes, I carry a trowel. You never know when you’re going to find a specimen you need to take home. I start digging around the perimeter of the mismatched grbum.

“Pssst… hey, Amar! Something’s moving in the bushes!”

Oh, ****.

“What do you see, Johnson?”

“Squirrel. A big grey one. Should I shoot it?”

****. This is going to be a long night.