Three big crows strutted behind him.

The first thing they go for is the eyes, Matthew, the voice said.

Matt whipped his hand in the air and the crows flew off into the night, cawing with disappointment. They’d have to peck out something else’s eyes, perhaps something that wouldn’t injure them in the process.

His muscles were rigid, burning, and tight and he didn’t feel attached to them, like they were chunks of ham stapled to his body. He wondered how much damage the Being was doing to him. There was a limit to the punishment a human could take. The thing had dragged him back through the bog, back to the orchard, and dumped him there like a cat toying with a mouse. The bitch was back—the bitch of the ten acres.

Matt stood and his knees wobbled. Great. That last hit did a number on his nerves, too. They were frosted, slow, frazzled. He wondered if it was permanent. He’d had his arm fall asleep before, and he’d woken in the night, frightened when he couldn’t feel it. But that was because he’d fallen asleep on it.

Matt put one foot in front of the other, testing his strength. He moved okay, but limped. Despite achieving movement, his legs didn’t feel right. At all.

Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out his trusty headlamp, then stretched the device onto his head, bloody temples or not. Slowly he scanned the orchard for his knife, then remembered it sunk in the bog when the Being had seized him. Didn’t matter. There were other knives in the shack.

At least I don’t have to carry that freaking water jug anymore, he thought. He could certainly thank the Being for that. On the way back to the shack, the headlamp beam illuminated his sideways truck. It seemed to wait there for him like an obedient dog.

I’ll fix you, he thought.

You need to fix yourself first, the little voice said. I don’t think you can take too many more hits, Matthew.

He knew this, and he also knew he needed to keep the Being entertained. If he remained still for too long, refusing to play the game, the Being might just finish him off and stalk the Northwoods for a new toy. Maybe that was a good thing. It would end the suffering.

A gnawing pain infiltrated his stomach. Hunger. But he wasn’t the only one. Inside the shack, three furry rumps sat on the floor. A bag of Doritos lay shredded, the orange chips scattered across the musty floor. In between the clicks and chitters Matt could hear the little fur balls crunching his food. The raccoons were so enamored with their lucky-luck feast they didn’t notice him. At first. When Matt reached the doorway, he stepped aside. His father had always told him never corner an animal.