Originally published on StoryStar 0214 An hour after sunrise, Julianna's husband slapped his hand to the back of his neck. Cursing foully, he began kicking up dirt and cucumbers in the small vegetable garden behind their log cabin. Kneeling in the potato patch, she turned to him and had wanted to say, "Don't make such a fuss, Eli! You wont die from a little bee sting. Let's get back to the weedin'." Now as they stood in late afternoon heat looking down at the crude, simple coffin her nearest neighbor had quickly knocked together, she was glad she said nothing. Usually it was best not to say anything that might rile Eli. She still had bruises from last time. And as it turned out, she was dead wrong anyway.