The wind howls above us as we inch apart, gasping in the chalky air. He peers at me for a moment, then dives back, kissing my throat, my collarbone, the tops of my breasts. I drag him up again, our lips bruising each other’s.

He stops to breathe again, sweetly reluctant, and perches above me, staring down at me as if in wonder, and it’s too much—it hurts. I touch his cheeks, neck, shoulders, the lines of his waist, his hips, pulling him against me, while he burrows his mouth in my hair, sighing my name.

Matthew, Matty—he’s Matty now, my Matty. Lute was right, this is right. We have to keep going. I hold him tighter with one arm as I reach with the other to shove down the waistband of my underwear, when my ears prick.

There’s a sound up the road. A shuffling. Muttering.

Matty’s heard it too. His body’s turned to cold marble against mine. He slides away and up, offering me a hand.

I stand and shrink back with him against the bumpy iron railing encircling Jo’s house.

Shock ripples through me. Reality returns, bit by bit.

We wait a meter apart now like two magnets that have been flipped to repel. What the hell was that about? I can’t look at him, so I stare instead at the iron horse lying in the lane. The sun is hitting it strangely, making it bright around the edges. When I blink, I still see it burned into my retina.

I wasn’t myself just then. I try out the thought. It doesn’t ring true.

I was completely myself, all restraint removed.

That shuffling murmur grows closer, coming from the north, until the sound finally forms into a recognizable voice.

Matthew’s eyes widen. He steps into the road.

Mrs. Wickett is dragging her feet as she walks down the lane. She’s dressed in a light summer dress that looks like the one she wore at the grove ceremony, only this one has the image of a large poppy on the chest. She looks more dazed than usual, clutching her hands to her stomach over and over in a strange motion and staring down as if speaking to them.

“All right, Elsie?” Matty calls out, arms crossed tightly.

She glances up and down again, keeps shuffling closer, still talking to herself.

I can make out words now.

“It’s not working … Why won’t they … just take me, I’m ready … Can’t get it to…”

I recognize the movement in her hands now—a sawing motion. The sun glints bright against something she’s holding.

I realize something else too. The pattern on her white dress. That’s not a poppy.

Horror fills my throat before words burst out of it. “Stop her! Matty, she’s got—”