Joe decided to leave it at that and settled into the sumptuous leather seat. A smile played across his face as he took in the car and the idea of it being his. The man turned on the stereo and the car was suddenly engulfed in an aria perfectly executed by Placido Domingo. Joe was by no means an aficionado of opera or any other specific genre of music. He had no idea in fact that it was the legendary tenor singing, nor did he realize that the aria in question was “Di Quella Pira” from Giuseppe Verdi’s Il Trovatore… and like the title character, Manrico, he was much closer to danger than he could ever imagine.

Since Joe knew neither the aria nor Italian the warning of danger was lost on him. He closed his eyes, enjoying incomprehensible music, and before long was fast asleep.

WHEN JOE awoke it was dark, and the Jaguar’s headlights were stretched out across a vast pumpkin patch, determined but unable to illuminate the far reaches of the plot. Placido Domingo’s voice was a distant memory, and Joe fumbled through murky remnants of the afternoon to piece together where he was and what he was doing here.

“Our deal, remember?” the man in the driver seat prodded him without taking his eyes off the pumpkin patch. His sunglasses still concealed his eyes despite the oncoming night, and Joe guessed that he was likely self-conscious about the unseemly cataracts.

“You seriously think someone is stealing your pumpkins?” Joe asked incredulously.

“Is that what I said?”

Joe tried to recall the brief exchange that had occurred on the side of the gravel road before he had jumped in this stranger’s car. He was quickly beginning to regret his decision.

“Just for a few hours. All I need you to do is stand out there and watch and then tell me what you see,” the man said in a reassuring voice, seemingly able to sense Joe’s growing discomfort. “After that, the car is yours.”

The man stared expectantly at Joe and he sensed this was the time when he was supposed to go out into the field. He pushed open the car door and felt his boot sink into a tilled row of topsoil. The fragrant essence of fresh, moist earth filled his lungs as he trudged out between the pumpkin rows, mumbling to himself, “This is freaking crazy.”

The car engine revved behind him and Joe turned as the headlights swung wide across the field. “Where are you going?” Joe yelled.

“To check my crops, it’s nearly harvest,” the man yelled back as he turned the car round, leaving the field eerily dark. “I’ll be back for you in a few hours.”

Joe listened as the car’s engine eventually disappeared and his eyes began to adjust in the darkness, which was gathering quickly, shunning the last remnants of violet in exchange for black. “What a nutcase.”