“You must hurry or we won’t make it to the shelter before harvest time,” she panted, half dragging her younger brother through the ripe wheat stalks.
No one looked forward to sunsets anymore. They were a time of terror, of hiding, of waiting for the danger to pass, because they came at sunset—the harvesters. Behind the fleeing ones a growling, metallic whirl and bright lights warned of the impending destruction so they raced at breakneck speed for the shelter, which was finally in sight. Long ears tucked against soft fur as sister and brother dove into the burrow with the other cotton-tailed leporids that huddled—quivering—as the harvester roared overhead.