“Here.” Peric pointed to an expanse of grass well away from his campsite. “Let it go.”

He’d never given Onia a command like this before. He’d never needed to. So long as she handled her business in private (and she always did), he didn’t give a flying fuck where she did it. That was, until she ingested the two most valuable objects in his possession.

Unfortunately, his command didn’t resonate with her. She stooped, inspected the area where he pointed, but made no attempt to do her thing — whatever that looked like. She’d eaten two massive Oubleaf trees over the course of the morning, each nearly as large as the one from last night. From the little he knew of Fyth digestion, she should be able to produce something soon. It was just a matter of when and where, two variables he intended to eliminate.

“Use. The. Bathroom.” He squatted, pantomiming. “Take. A. Dump.”

Her mouth formed an O shape. “But, Tomas say no. Tomas say — ”

“I don’t care what Tomas say.”

He’d never met her previous owner. Apparently, the man had abandoned Onia along with his farm. Relatives took over the farm but didn’t want to maintain another Fyth, so Peric got a discount. That all went down just a few days before he stole the terrestrial jumpship which got them stuck on this abominable planet.

The planet, Skorix 073, had enabled him to escape the law and feed Onia, but aside from that, it had no redeeming qualities. Due to its elliptical orbit around a distant red dwarf, the ship’s computer estimated ‘Winter’, when it finally arrived, would last a full Earth year and make Antarctica look like a balmy paradise. He planned on returning to Earth before then, even if it meant prison time. He simply couldn’t handle the frigid loneliness of this planet, let alone survive it.

“Who’s your owner?” he asked.

“Peric is Onia’s owner,” she said.

“Forget the commands Tomas gave you. You obey me and only me. Understood?”

She nodded. “Obey Peric.”

“Good. Now take a dump.”

“D — dump.” Still naked from the morning, she squatted over the indicated area. Her eyebrows drew together slightly, but nothing else happened. He turned around. He’d never known any animal, Fyth included, to need privacy, but maybe she did. Regardless, it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to witness anyway. Nothing about this —

A jet of green liquid shot past, grazing his right shoulder. Cool droplets sprayed against the side of his face and clothes.

“Stop!” He ducked down and to the left. Once free of the torrent, he turned to find her in a state of concentration, eyes shut and face relaxed. Three fingers on her left hand, fully healed from the fire punishment, pressed into the flesh just above her vagina.

He sidestepped further away from the growing puddle and waited for her to finish. It had to be a full minute at least, her stream only slowing to a trickle at the very end.

“You did that on purpose.”

Still squatting, she asked, “Onia do bad?”

“Yes. No. Onia do good.”

“Onia do good,” she said, a tentative smile creeping across her face.

He rarely praised her, but he couldn’t get the wail out of his mind. It had been the main reason he’d allowed her to gorge this morning. He figured if he could eliminate the pain he’d caused her and heal her fingers, his own torment would diminish. It hadn’t worked. She’d healed of course, but the echoes of her suffering still ricocheted in his skull.

He’d made up his mind. For the rest of today and tomorrow, no matter what she did, he wouldn’t punish her. If he went a full day without beating her, the pain his head would go away. He knew that much about himself — it would go away.

“Now,” he said before she could rise. “Take a dump. Take a shit. Whatever you call it.”

“S — shit.”

“Yes. Shit. Do a shit.” He sounded ridiculous. He probably looked ridiculous too — a grown man standing in front of an eighty foot Fyth, commanding her to take a shit. Even here on Skorix 073, a desolate planet in a nearly uninhabited galaxy, he sensed the ridicule of his father.

He paced back and forth between the stretched shadows cast by her bent knees. Occasionally, he’d glance up to find her watching with a look of perplexity.

“Poop!” He clapped his hands together once. “Do a poop.”

“Poop,” she said. “Onia poop here?”

“Yes. Onia poop there.”

“Ok.” Her eyes squeezed shut. Her face adopted the concentration look again, but this time more intense. He turned around even though, clearly, she had no need or desire for privacy.

Turning away had been a mistake last time, but only because he’d misjudged the distance of her stream. Judgement didn’t play a role in the current situation. If shit rained down on his head, he’d know for certain she’d done it intentionally. It would be enough for him to break his temporary vow of leniency.

He winced at the sound of a watery plopping, like wet mattresses dropped from a roof. He’d seen cows and horses shit numerous times, but the bodily functions of a Fyth were not intended to be witnessed. Whether it was their sheer size or their human characteristics, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t deny the unease.

When the sound finally ceased, he turned to find her squatting in the other direction, finger poking overlapped logs of lime manure.

“Stop!” He ran over to the pile and shooed her hand away. The smell caught him by surprise. Not because of its pungency, but the lack thereof. Aside from the faintest hint of pumpkin, he detected no odor whatsoever. Still, he dared not fill his lungs beyond half capacity, fearing he’d be overwhelmed by stench at any moment.

After a minute passed and the inevitable failed to happen, he allowed himself to breathe normally. It really didn’t smell like anything. Either that, or his nose had adjusted to the scent.

“Poop.” Her finger descended once more, stopping just before contact with it.

“Yes. Poop.”

“Onia do good?”

“Yes. Onia do good.”

A deep thump shook the ground. He looked over his shoulder to see her rolling on her back in the grass, knees bent to her chest. She rolled over the area where she’d peed, entirely unphased. He’d never seen her behave this way before. Then again, he’d never praised her twice in the same day before. For that matter, he’d never praised her twice in the same month.

Reminding himself that she wasn’t the only one now covered in pee, he smelled the moist arm of his coat. Like the dung, he detected no odor. And like the dung, he’d heard of communities consuming the stuff. They called it brine and lauded it as a lifesaving commodity, capable of making virtually any landscape habitable by providing a fresh source of ‘water’. He’d never tasted it and he never would, but at least it lessened his disgust at being sprayed by it.

And it lessened his disgust at what he’d have to do next.

He removed his coat. Only a couple hours of semi warmth remained before dusk heralded the return of mistchill, so he’d have to get this over with fast. He rolled up his sleeves, inhaled deeply, and plunged his arm into the waist high pile of shit.

He jerked his arm free, eliciting a squelch from the hole he’d made. Then, he gagged. He hadn’t expected the texture. It was somewhere between Jello and warm butter, even though it looked cool and watery on the outside. Kale — he had to call it that. Otherwise he’d never be able to get through the experience.

Onia rolled near to him, her inquisitive face eclipsing his left peripheral view. What did an animal think when one dug through their shit? He didn’t know, nor did he want to know.

After taking another deep breath, he reinserted his arm and cut deep furrows along the length of the first log. There were four altogether, each over fifteen feet in length and each fatter than his Uncle Ray, a round man who’d won Nebsook’s pie eating contest the last three years straight. Blueberry pie. Perfect fucking time to think of pie.

By the time he’d explored three stools and the outer edges of the fourth, the neck of his shirt had become coated in kale. Unfortunately, he couldn’t reach deep enough into the center of the mound, the area where the logs overlapped. So he stripped, then waded buck naked into the cool muck. He knelt and sifted through it, keeping his head just above the surface. Finally, when he was about ready to dive into it, his foot impacted something hard.

Balancing it atop his toes, he lifted until he could grab it and bring it to the surface. It was the railroad spike! He wiped away the gelatinous kale and stared at it — half his ticket off this planet was in the palm of his hand.

Now to find the other half.

He waded around and even dove in a few times. In spite of his earlier resolution, he couldn’t help but taste the substance. It tasted like nothing. The closest analog would be water or perhaps boiled egg whites. He dared not savor any of it in his mouth, fearing that closer inspection by his taste buds would reveal some hidden flavor, perhaps a vile unexpected aftertaste. It wasn’t a risk worth taking.

By the time he emerged, the mists had arrived and the chill, compounded by his dampness, soaked into his bones. He tossed the spike onto his clothing pile.

“Lake.”

He hopped on Onia’s hand and they traveled to the nearby lake. She released him at the edge and he dove in. His breath froze in his lungs and a shock traveled the length of his body. It was all he could do to duck his head under the freezing water and rinse his hair and body once. He crawled out and collapsed in her hand, shivering uncontrollably.

“F — fire.”

She layered her other hand on top of him and her skin warmed like a tanning bed. He pulled his dangling arm underneath the fleshy enclosure, along with his exposed right foot. Sensing his need, her hands adjusted to cover all of his body. For the first time in months, he let himself relax completely, feeling an invisible burden slide from his muscles.

She moved. He could tell by the whump of her footsteps, but that was about it. His heated confinement didn’t jolt in the slightest. It might’ve been the cadence of her gait or the way his body seemed to melt into her skin, but his exhaustion won some battle with his mind. A battle he cared not to fight.

So he slept.