They moved as if conducting a delicate search operation. Knees bent, fingers splayed, eyes skimmed the sod for the trifoliate shape that meant hope. Each time a hand passed over a patch, the heart pulsed with a double beat: anticipation and the low thrum of danger. The field was public, but secrets make enemies of the public. The narrow escape was no metaphor here; every pursuit in these parts ran the risk of being cut off by someone sharper, someone who read omens the way others read weather.