We heard shouting when we reached the parking lot. The duffel bag with the light swung between us, Grayson hurrying and carrying it without complaint. There was no question of calling anyone about the body. Who would we call, what would we say? The sheriff would only make trouble, find an excuse to open my bag, search me, seek out the smell in my truck. It wouldn’t help the Pumpkin King, anyway, calling anyone, telling anyone about him. He was gone. He had no people, I bet. The men who had killed him were gone, too, their message lost like pills in the river. The law would never work hard for him. A skinny junkie, they would say, who lived in a trailer: an addict who fed the birds.

At the sound of the shouting, Grayson stopped. The lights over by the gas station looked different. Brighter somehow. We both noticed. “What the hell is happening?” Grayson said.

“Just keep going.”

In the time we had been in the woods, sleet had kept falling. A coat of ice lay over the parking lot, clear and rippled with air. I slowed my pace even further so Grayson wouldn’t fall. Somehow we made it to the truck. Grayson helped me heft the duffel bag into the bed. We got into the cab and I started the engine.

I thought of the body.

Would fruits burst from his eyes, eventually, if spring ever came back? Or would his body just freeze, wasted, not even a gift to the ground? Was this what they did to growers now—killed us and strung us up like dolls?

I put the truck into gear and drove, almost immediately skidding, sliding over the lot.

Grayson shouted, “Stop!”

I hit the brakes. The truck fishtailed and I steered into the skid. We wobbled to a halt, and a black shape ran past us.

“What was that?” he said.

Another shadow came running.

More and more shadows streamed from around the darkened strip mall. A stampede of them. People were running away from something.

Whatever it was, we needed to run, too.

I put the truck back into gear. We drove until we saw what the light in the distance was.

The gas station was on fire. Smoke poured around the overhang. I heard the crack of glass as the windows of the store shattered. People ran in front of our truck without seeing us, without seeing anything. There were dozens of people. Some were shouting. Some seemed to be bleeding. A fist pounded on the hood of the truck, and Grayson gave a yell.

I saw a person on the ground. He lay half in the parking lot, half on the bank of the bordering woods, on his back. Someone seemed to step on his hand and he didn’t even budge. I jolted the truck into Park and unbuckled my seat belt.

“What are you doing?” Grayson said.

“There’s somebody on the ground.”