If we had shadows, they’ d be getting long and we might use them to move in the same direction at least, he thought, but they had no shadows. Not in the tall grass. He looked at his watch and wasn’t surprised to see it had stopped even though it was a self-winder. The grass had stopped it. He felt sure of it. Some malignant vibe in the grass, some paranormal Fringe shit.

It was half past nothing when Becky began to sob.

“Beck? Beck?”

“I have to rest, Cal. I have to sit down. I’m so thirsty. And I’ve been having cramps.”

“Contractions?”

“I guess so. Oh, God, what if I have a miscarriage out here in this fucking field?”

“Just sit where you are,” he said. “They’ll pass.”

“Thanks, Doc, I’ll—” Nothing. Then she began screaming. “Get away from me! Get away! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Cal, now too tired to run, ran anyway.

↘

Even in her shock and terror, Becky knew who the madman had to be when he brushed aside the grass and stood before her. He was wearing tourist clothes—Dockers and mud-clotted Bass Weejuns. The real giveaway, however, was his T-shirt. Although it was smeared with mud and a dark maroon crust that was almost certainly blood, she could see the ball of spaghetti-like string and knew what was printed above it—WORLD’S BIGGEST BALL OF TWINE, CAWKER CITY, KANSAS. Didn’t she have a shirt just like it neatly folded in her suitcase?

Tobin’s dad. In the mud- and grass-smeared flesh.

“Get away from me!” She leaped to her feet, hands cradling her belly. “Get away! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Dad grinned. His cheeks were stubbly, his lips red. “Calm down. Want to see my wife? Or hey! Want to get out? It’s easy.”

She stared at him, openmouthed. Cal was shouting, but for the moment she paid no attention.

“If you could get out,” she said, “you wouldn’t still be in.”

He tittered. “Right idea. Wrong conclusion. I was just going to hook up with my boy. Already found my wife. Want to meet her?”

She said nothing.

“Okay,” he said, and turned from her. He started into the grass. Soon he would melt away, just as her brother had, and Becky felt a stab of panic. He was clearly mad—you only had to look into his eyes or listen to his text-message vocal delivery to know that—but he was human.

He stopped and turned back, grinning. “Forgot to introduce myself. My bad. Ross Humbolt’s the name. Real estate’s the game. Poughkeepsie. Wife’s Natalie. Little boy’s Tobin. Sweet kid! Smart! You’re Becky. Brother’s Cal. Last chance, Becky. Come with me or die.” His eyes dropped to her belly. “Baby, too.”

Don’t trust him.