The funny part? He will. Drew fights like a pissed-off bull. The threat works better than any inspirational speech.
I climb out and close my own door, jogging to catch up before he reaches the door. He hooks an arm around my shoulders, casual and warm.
“Now,” he says, scanning the dusty yard, “let’s see what ladies have graced us with their presence.”
I roll my eyes, but the knot in my chest eases a little.
THREE
WEIRD . . .
VAL
I never thoughtour old Volvo could look brand-new again, but that was before I saw it parked beside the rusted red Chevy sitting next to us. The thing looks like it survived three tornadoes and a divorce. Something about it feels familiar, though I can’t place why.
One look at the farm and I’m pretty sure nothing within twenty-five miles counts as new. Three massive barns lean around the main house like they’re trying to hold it upright. The barn paint has faded so much it’s turned a sickly pink, giving the whole place a cursed Candy Land vibe. I half expect Gloppy to ooze past on his way to Molasses Swamp.
Mom rolls down the window and waves like she’s dropping me at summer camp instead of a farm held together by hope and peeling paint.
“Morning, Fred!” she calls.
A white-haired man in faded overalls shuffles out from one of the barns, wiping his hands on a rag that used to be white sometime around Y2K. Farmer Fred waddles toward us, histrucker hat crooked, his face a roadmap of wrinkles that all lead to the same landmark: grumpy.
“Ms. Andrews,” he says with a nod. “Is Valerie ready to work?”
“Of course.”
Fred squints at the field behind him. “Could use as much help as I can get. Busy time of year. Trying to fancy the place up. Draw a big crowd.”
Fancy. Right.
Mom turns to me. “I’ll pick you up at eight tonight.” She hands me a brown paper bag. “Your lunch. Don’t forget to eat.”
“Sure thing, Ma,” I say, even though we both know I’ll probably forget. Must be the depression. Yay.
Fred clears his throat. “I’ll make sure they all eat. Need to have their strength. Got a lot to do,” he says before hacking and spitting a wad into the dirt.
Mom beams like I’m in excellent hands instead of being dropped into a Craigslist horror scenario.
I unbuckle and swing one leg out, but her whisper pulls me back.
“Remember what I said, Valerie.” Her eyes lock on to mine, freckled face tight, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other fusses with her thermos. “You better have plans for your future when I come get you tonight.”
I give her a mock salute and step out, slamming the door harder than necessary. The Volvo coughs to life and rolls away in a cloud of dust. I watch it shrink until the fog swallows it.
When I turn back, Fred’s polite smile has already slipped into mild annoyance.
“Come on,” he grunts. “Don’t just stand there. Lot to do. Not much time to do it.”
I fall in step behind him down a gravel path, each crunch under my shoes sending a little jolt up my legs. The air carriesdirt, hay, and something sour lurking underneath—a rot that doesn’t match anything I’m seeing.
I scan the fields. No blackened plants. No moldy hay. Nothing that explains the rancid edge in the breeze.
Weird . . .
Then I see it.
A new pumpkin field sprawls across the far end of the farm, vines thick and tangled. The leaves glow a bright, unnatural green, and the soil looks darker than the rest—damp and glossy, like it’s holding its breath. The pumpkins pop with bright orange color, every size and shade lined up like they’re posing.
