About

The water tower ladder is gone. Somewhere down there in the black rows of rotting pumpkins, flashlight beams sweep slow and deliberate. Max lost a glove somewhere on the climb. Her bare fingers have gone stiff and pale, and she's pressing them against her knee like she can will the feeling back. You pulled her hand into yours and slid it under your glove without thinking twice. She said thanks like the word cost her something. Now you're both flat against the tank, shoulders touching, not breathing too loud. The fields below aren't quiet - something moves between the rows that isn't any of the men holding the lights. Dustin's walkie crackles in your jacket pocket. Every transmission could get you both killed.