Quebite pressed his back against the cold stone wall of his rock house and held his breath. Above his hill, footsteps crunched again. A stranger was walking the slope. Quebite was small, barely taller than the nettle stems, with orange polka dots on his green body and tufts of yellow-orange hair. He had built his home here because nobody came. Now somebody kept coming. If the stranger looked behind the tilted rock at the top of the hill, the little door and squat stone walls would show. Then his secret home would not be secret anymore. Quebite peeked through his window. The passerby crouched near the slanted stone, brushing moss from its face. Quebite's stomach knotted. The stranger leaned closer. One more step and he would see the doorway tucked below. Quebite could not fight a full-sized person. He could not move his house. He needed the stranger gone, and he needed him to stay gone. He thought about the nettle stems that grew wild at the bottom of the slope. Their leaves stung anyone who touched them. If nettles ringed his hill, no curious foot would ever climb this high. He slipped out the low door. He crept down through the grass, keeping the tilted rock between himself and the stranger. At the base of the slope he found the nettle patch, thick and green and mean. He wrapped his hands in a folded leaf. Then he dug, tearing up clumps by their roots. The stems stung through the leaf. Quebite hissed but kept pulling. He hauled the clumps up the hill one at a time. He planted them in a tight ring around the slanted stone, packing dirt over the roots. He worked fast. His hands burned. Red welts rose on his fingers. Above him, the stranger straightened and stepped forward, right toward the door. His boot came down in the fresh nettles. The stranger yelped. He jerked his leg back and swatted at his ankle. Angry red bumps spread across his skin. He hopped backward, cursing, and stumbled away from the tilted rock. He never once looked at the doorway below it. He limped down the far side of the hill, scratching, and did not slow until he vanished into the trees. Quebite sank down beside his stinging wall. His hands throbbed. But the ring held. The nettles stood guard around the slanted stone, hiding his home behind a fence no foot would cross. He smiled and looked at his work. Then he noticed the trail of torn earth he had left dragging clumps up the slope. Bare dirt cut a clear line from the base of the hill straight to his door. Anyone who followed it would come right to him. Quebite's smile faded. He had hidden his house behind nettles. Now a path pointed the way.