The first thing you notice is the sound. Not the hum of the highway you left behind, not the distant cry of a crow. It’s a whisper, dry and rhythmic—a billion grass blades rubbing together, stitching the world shut behind you.
“I found a path!” he called, but his voice scraped—dry, wrong.
They followed the sound until they found him—not a boy, not anymore. His name was Ross, and he’d crawled in seven years ago. His skin had the waxy, translucent quality of something grown underground. His teeth were filed to points by chewing grass stalks for moisture. His eyes had the flat, patient hunger of a creature that has learned the grass provides—if you give something back.
Then they heard the boy.
“No,” Cal said, kicking a bleached rabbit skull. “The circles are walking us.”
