A haze covered the desolate field near the old red barn. But it wasn't smoke or fog. It was the kind of muggy morning where you could actually see the humidity in Wichita. That's where Rory was tending to over 10,000 honey bee's when the phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He walked away from the white square boxes that colonized the hardest workers on the planet and set the smoke canister down next to his tattered boots. He righted himself and pulled the sheer veil net away from his face before removing the yellow bee hat off his wavy, auburn hair. The cell continued to pulsate as sweat beaded across his forehead like a Slurpee cup left on a dashboard. He wiped his brow with a sleave of flannel and the dense fabric soaked up the sweat like a paper towel erased spills. He had gotten so use to the random stings on his arms that he abandoned the protective suit a long time ago. But none of them could've prepaired him for the sting he was about to recieve when he answered this sad call.