He closed his eyes again, briefly. That’s the kid’s line. Then he thought: Le kid, c’est moi. It was almost funny. WHO SWALLOWED A BAG FULLA SEEDS!” the girl trilled, her voice vibrato with barely controlled laughter.

Cuando tocas la roca (o la abrazas, da igual), puedes ver. Sabes un montón de cosas más. Pero también te da más hambre. Ah, Christ, now she was fading again. He was so scared that the truth popped out with absolutely no trouble at all, and at top volume. Harrison Gilbertson, Laysla De Oliveira, and Avery Whitted in an image from Netflix’s film adaptation of in the tall grass. Netflix No,” Cal said. “I don’t think it is. I’d rather stay lost.” Maybe it was just his imagination, but the buzzing seemed to be getting louder. He was naked from the waist up, kneeling beside her. His scrawny chest was very pale in the dove-colored half-light. His face was sunburned—badly, a blister right on the end of his nose—but aside from that he looked rested and well. No, more than that: He looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.Cal, as always, spoke as if he had a direct line to her private thoughts. “Aren’t you the little Mother Mary? Wonder when the wise men will show up! Wonder what gifts they’ll have for us!” He got to his knees. “Kid? Tobin? Sing—” He sneezed mud, wiped his face, and now smelled grass-goo when he inhaled. Better and better. A true sensory bouquet. “Sing out! You too, Mom!” She didn’t, but followed just the same. At what she hoped was a safe distance. “You have no idea where you’re going.” She was about to descend the embankment, to the edge of the grass, when there came a second voice, a woman’s—hoarse and confused. She had the groggy rasp of someone who has just come awake and needs a drink of water. Badly.

Another. Another. Each match made a fat little puff of smoke as soon as it touched the wet green. One didn’t even make it into the grass, but was huffed out by the gentle breeze as soon as it was lit. If we had shadows, they’d be getting long and we might use them to move in the same direction, at least, he thought, but they had no shadows. Not in the tall grass. He looked at his watch and wasn’t surprised to see it had stopped even though it was a self-winder. The grass had stopped it. He felt sure of it. Some malignant vibe in the grass; some paranormal Fringe shit. Cal grinned at her—his best, zaniest grin. “Isn’t she great? I’ve got her. She’s perfect. Out of the oven and baked just right!” By that point Cal had been hysterical, running and jumping and screaming for her. He shouted and ran for a longtime before he finally got himself under control, forced himself to stop and listen. He had bent over, clutching his knees and panting, his throat achy with thirst, and had turned his attention to the silence.

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We keep calling,” he said, moving toward where her voice had come from. “We keep calling until we’re together again.”

I’m over here, buddy,” she called to him. “Keep walking toward me. You’re almost to the road. You’re almost out.” The DeMuths enter the grass, only to become immediately and inevitably separated in the seven foot foliage. Panic, coupled with prolonged exposure to the burning sun begins to drain the pair mentally and physically as it gradually dawns on them that leaving this overgrown field is not going to be as easy as previously thought. There is no morning or night here, Cal thought, only eternal afternoon. But even as this idea occurred to him, he saw that the blue of the sky was deepening and the squelchy ground beneath his sodden feet was growing dim. A part of him—a part he had been trying with all his will to ignore—already knew what he was going to see. This part had been providing an almost jovial running commentary: Everything will have moved, Cal, good buddy. The grass flows and you flow too. Think of it as becoming one with nature, bro.What?” Faint. Jesus Christ, what was the kid doing? Lighting out for Nebraska? “Are you coming? You have to keep coming! I can’t find you!” Cal was screaming her name from very far away. If he had been in Manitoba before, now he was down a mineshaft in Manitoba.

The match went out the moment he touched it to the wet grass, the stems heavy with a dew that never dried, and dense with juice. He had crossed a few dozen feet of the dirt parking lot and then hesitated by what looked like a first-generation Prius. It was filmed with a pale coat of road dust, almost completely obscuring the windshield. Cal hunched slightly, shielded his eyes with one hand, and squinted through the side window at something in the passenger seat. Frowning to himself for a moment, and then flinching, as if from a horsefly. It is a good idea,” she said. “It’s going on for five thirty, and I bet they’re really hungry. Who’s going to stay and set up the barbecue?” This was followed by another brief burst of laughter—a giddy, nervous sob of hilarity. It wasn’t Cal, and it wasn’t the kid, not this time. It wasn’t the woman, either. This laughter came from somewhere to her left, then died out, swallowed by bug song. It was male and had a quality of drunkenness to it.

He was our Golden. Did great Frisbee catches. Just like a dog on TV. It’s easier to find things in here once they’re dead. The field doesn’t move dead things around.” His eyes gleamed in the fading light, and he looked at the mangled crow, which Cal was still holding. “I think most birds steer clear of the grass. I think they know, and tell each other. But some don’t listen. Crows don’t listen the most, I guess, because there are quite a few dead ones in here. Wander around for a while and you find them.”