Backyard by Norman Draper

squeaked, and just about jumped out of his pajamas when he stepped onto the patio and the floodlights came on again.
    â€œWell,” he said, chuckling nervously. “Whatever it is that’s out there, if it’s still out there, can certainly see us now, though we just as certainly can’t see it.” They crept toward the edge of the darkness.
    â€œI don’t hear anything,” Nan whispered.
    â€œAliens from another planet. Didn’t you hear the snips?”
    Nan sniggered.
    â€œAliens don’t snip, they beep,” she said.
    â€œYou said you heard something. It wasn’t snipping sounds?”
    â€œNo. I heard something. But nothing I could identify as a snipping. What I heard was more like something in motion, Very subtle, but out here for sure. Probably just kids screwing around.”
    â€œKids snipping?”
    â€œI don’t know, George,” said Nan, the need to sleep winning the battle over her initial disquietude. “Maybe kids. Maybe snipping. But snipping about what?”
    â€œNot snipping as in dissing someone. That would be sniping. Not being snippy. Snipping as in snipping . You know. Snip, snip. ”
    â€œThis is getting silly,” said Nan with a yawn. “Who cares if it was kids, and who cares if kids were snipping. No sign of any damage done. We’ll check tomorrow. If it keeps up for a few more nights, I’ll get more worried. But, right now, I need sleeeep.”
    â€œMaybe it was our kids snipping. I know I heard snipping.”
    â€œOkay. If it makes you happy, we’ll check the rooms on the way back.”
    Sis was in her room downstairs, which was a good thing since she wasn’t allowed out past midnight. Upstairs, a big snoring lump indicated that Ellis was in. Next door, there was Cullen, curled up under the blanket.
    â€œHmmm,” said George. “So who was it out there, and what the hell were those snips?”
    â€œJust mischievous kids who probably had a few nights of fun in the woods, and won’t ever come back again,” Nan said. “Now, get back to bed before I decide to get out the loppers and snip you .”

10
    Cutworms
    â€œT his is obviously the work of an amateur . . . a rank amateur.”
    Dr. Sproot turned from the computer monitor she had been studying. She focused her squint-eyed stare on the furiously blinking Marta, who fought the overpowering urge to hunch over and lower her head like a cringing animal.
    They had spent the morning going over Marta’s notes. Those had been carefully arranged by backyard section to fill twenty-seven impeccably typed pages held in a fuchsia-colored ring binder, picked out specially by Marta to reflect Dr. Sproot’s favorite non-garden color. There were also five maps drawn by Marta to professional draftsman standards.
    Through it all, Marta noticed Dr. Sproot downing mug after mug of steaming coffee without any apparent effect on her damaged throat. Apart from reiterating her threat to sue, she had not mentioned her throat or any sort of medical prognosis or treatment in the week and a half since she had been scalded by Marta’s hot tea. Wouldn’t someone as coffee-amped as Dr. Sproot find that a natural topic to broach, especially to her alleged best friend and the perpetrator of the injury?
    Marta toyed with the notion of bringing up the subject in some sort of indirect way just to see what kind of response she would get, but quickly backed off: such recklessness could set off another confrontation with her old friend and more threats. At this point, Marta couldn’t bring herself to face any more of that unpleasantness and the disturbing ramifications it might have.
    Much of their morning’s work involved Dr. Sproot tearing apart Marta’s efforts. She picked apart her notes for mistakes—of which Marta freely admitted there were probably a few. She shook her head in disgust at the appearance of smudges on pages four