A groan pulls me to a stop.
I turn back to the scarecrow.
His head lolls and the movement sends a bead of blood spilling from his mouth.
“Oh my god.”
I drop my basket, scramble over the fence, and race through the field, cornstalks whipping at my face. I shove them aside, parting them like a theater curtain.
“Help,” the man whispers, his voice wet and hoarse.
“I’m coming!” I shout.
TWELVE
Scarecrow
The sound of whistling rouses me.
It’s a soft melody, part birdsong, part work tune.
Everything hurts.
I jerk forward but the ropes binding my wrists hold fast. Another length of rope is wound around my waist, lashing me to a pole staked in the ground.
I’m in a cornfield in the Ends.
The whistling gets closer.
It takes too much effort to keep my head upright, so I let it loll forward, let the blood drip from my mouth.
“Help,” I croak, but the word comes out a rasp.
Closer.
Closer still.
The girl stops on the Yellow Brick Road.
I shift just enough to show her there is life here.
“Oh my god,” she calls out.
The sound of her voice is more music than the whistling and it catches me off guard. My heartbeat quickens.
I pull in a breath, ignore the ache in my ribs.
“Help,” I say again.
“I’m coming!” she shouts.
The cornstalks part for her like a tide.
She is a vision of light. Prettier than expected.
My heart thumps harder.
I look up at her and smile.
