We drove out of the smoke and into the darkness. The chill closed around us. I felt the wind in every inch of exposed skin: the back of my neck between my hat and collar, the bit of wrist laid bare by my sleeves. I told Grayson where to go. When we arrived at the driveway, he left the truck running and we hopped out to deal with the gate.

I met Grayson in front of the truck, the headlights spotlighting us like burglars. I yanked open the padlock and Grayson unwrapped the chain. In years before, this part of the driveway would be rutted in mud. I would step out of the truck and straight into a puddle.

But the mud was frozen, hardened lava. Ice made the driveway shine. As we worked, snow began to patter us.

Grayson set the chain down and together we lifted the gate. “Who is that guy?” Grayson whispered. “Do you know him?”

“A hippie. He was in my grade at school. He dropped out.”

Grayson glanced back at the truck. “What about the dead guy? Why did someone kill him? For seeds?”

“They left the seeds.” We had pushed the gate wide enough that the truck could enter. I let go and wiped my gloves on my coveralls. Frost clung to the fabric, prickly as thistles. Nothing was melting. “Maybe they killed him for money,” I said. “Or drugs. I’m pretty sure he was on something. Pain pills, maybe.”

“Should we tell somebody?”

I thought of the gas station burning. I thought of the hospital, the nurse standing on a chair to shout at the crowd. I thought of the snow—how it was now, after the freezing rain, the smallest of pinpricks, almost invisible, but insistent: white needles.

The small flakes were a bad sign. They meant colder temperatures. The smaller the flake, the colder the air. I thought of the Pumpkin King, covered in white flowers.

“Who’s there to tell?” I said.

I let Grayson stay behind the wheel. He seemed to want be useful. He managed the driveway fine, pulling the truck right up to the farmhouse. Only after he had turned off the engine did I open the duffel bag in the back, did I even remember it. I heard a strange sound when I reached for the bag: a crunching. I tried not to worry, but I knew. I unzipped the bag.

The grow light lay in pieces.

Dance leaned over my shoulder, giving a low whistle at the broken light. He knew what it was. If he was surprised, he wasn’t showing it. “Those things are valuable now,” he said.

Grayson got out of the truck, readjusting his cast. The engine ticked as it rested. Somewhere in the woods, far off on one of the ridges, a coyote howled.