Pampered little shit, that's what Daisy is.

The most spoiled sheep in all of Texas, you can be sure of that. Refuses to eat the grass around the barn like every other animal. So you have to haul her four miles up a hill before she’ll even consider opening her mouth. And don't even think about giving her hay if you don't want a hoof hitting you square in the knee. You even have to sing her a song when you're crouched down trying to milk her. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, it's true. You've hummed so many Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash songs to Daisy that you can't stand to listen to their voices anymore whenever you go out to a dance in town.

And all of it is your daddy's doing.

If that man didn't treat Daisy like his own child you're sure she'd quit being such a snob.

Well, guess what? The prissy cotton ball got knocked up in March and your daddy's fussing over her like she's about to have his grand baby.

Can you believe that?

You can swear on your life that she only enjoyed that high pasture because the neighbour's ram was getting sweet on her.

Now it’s late July and she’s round as a barrel, waddling around the barn like a freaking duck. Her sides sway when she walks, her udder’s all tight and shiny, "bagging up," as your daddy keeps proudly announcing. She can’t seem to get comfortable, lies down, grunts, hauls herself back up with the kind of suffering sigh usually reserved for when your dad loses at poker to your neighbour.

You would almost feel pity for her. Almost. If she didn't turn into an aggressive little bitch.

She’s developed… opinions. Opinions about everything. Daisy’s decided she’s above grass entirely.

You try to give her the grass by the barn because she's too pregnant to walk up the hill where her baby daddy's probably waiting? She snorts, stamps a hoof like she’s declaring war.

You offer the expensive hay your mama bought especially for her? Yeah, that hay that cost more than your truck payment. Same reaction, only louder, as if you personally insulted her.

You crouch to milk her, and she leans back on her haunches, hooves braced, glaring like she's preparing to kill you.

And maybe she is.

Sometimes she tries to shove you with her head. Not playful, definitely not gentle. Full-on "get out of my way" because she is pregnant and dramatic and convinced the world exists solely to serve her cravings. If she misses, she’ll stomp her front hooves, ears pinned, eyes wide, just to make the point. And when you think she's done? She bleats. High-pitched and commanding, the kind of bleat that could summon cows from the next ranch over if they weren’t too afraid of her.

Speaking of the next ranch, she seems to have developed a certain fondness for it. For what your darling neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing.

Corn.

Over the crooked fence line and across property you absolutely should not be crossing, stands a tall, golden field that might as well be calling her name.

And your daddy? The only craving of his sweet fluffy angel that he can't satisfy is this. Why? Because he doesn’t plant corn. Says it’s too much work, too much water, too much risk.

Joel apparently disagrees. Has about 150 acres of land dedicated to it.

You think you've had enough of her diva attitude and you're about to slaughter her with your bare hands? She suddenly becomes docile when the wind shifts just right and carries that sweet green smell from Joel’s fields.

She just stands there, calm as anything now, like she hasn’t been making your life hell all day. Nose lifted, ears twitching, breathing it in like it’s the finest thing she’s ever smelled.

You follow her gaze out toward the fence without meaning to.

Ripe. Golden.

Not yours.

You click your tongue and turn away.

"Don't even think about it, Daisy. That corn ain't ours."

Not that the fucking sheep understands a word you're saying, but you can swear that she rolled her eyes behind your back.

────୨ৎ────

You don’t think much of it after that. Just another one of Daisy’s moods. The Lord knows she’s had plenty.

Your daddy heads out not long after supper, already halfway into his boots while he’s still talking, hopping a little on one foot as he tries to shove the other on properly. He’s got that look on his face too, like he’s been thinking about this game all day.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him fumble around like he’s in a hurry for once in his life.

"Where’s your hat?" you ask.

He glances around, pats his head like it might magically be there, then spots it on the table and grabs it. "Right there, see? I knew where it was."

"Mmhm."

He jams it onto his head anyway, a little crooked, and only fixes it when he catches you looking.

"Don’t start," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

You let out a quiet snort.

He steps closer then, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of your hair back before leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek, his stubble scratching just enough to be annoying.

"Don’t wait up," he says. "Game might run long."

You already know the drill. His poker games always drag well past midnight. Especially if there’s booze involved.

And there’s always booze involved.

You nod, half listening, your mind already drifting somewhere else entirely, running through the list of things you might have forgotten to do before coming inside. The chickens... the latch on the coop.. whether that one stubborn hen finally went in or decided to sleep out like she’s got a death wish.

Meh.

It’s been a while since you’ve had to chase a fox off with a rifle. Could be entertaining.

Your mama doesn’t even look up from her chair, too busy picking at something in her lap. "Don’t lose too much," she calls out, like she’s said it a hundred times before.

He laughs, already turning toward the door. "No promises if Joel’s there."

That gets your attention for half a second.

Of course he is.

When isn’t he?

You lean your shoulder a little harder into the frame, watching your daddy step out onto the porch, boots thudding against the wood. "Try not to bet anything we actually need this time," you call after him.

He waves you off without turning around. "That was one time."

"One time too many."

You still sometimes bring up the time your dad didn’t have enough cash and decided, like an idiot, to bet a few acres of land instead.

And lost. To Joel fucking Miller.

You remember that fight. Hard not to.

Your mama near tore the house down, your daddy swearing up and down he’d win it back next time.

He didn't.

Joel won it fair and square, as everyone kept saying.

The great Joel Miller. God of poker games to your dad. Asshole land thief to your mom. Keeper of Daisy’s latest obsession. And the fantasy of all the girls in town. Maybe even some of the married ladies too, if church gossip is to be believed.

Scandalous.

From what your aunts have told you when they visit, it seems that he's always been the center of attention for women. Even when he was married a long time ago. Even more so when his wife left him.

"You should’ve seen him back in high school, sugar. Prettiest thing you ever laid eyes on."

"If I hadn’t already been promised to your uncle Peter, I would’ve snatched him up myself."

"Mhm, that man’s always had women trailin’ after him."

"Still does. Don’t think he don’t notice neither."

"Speakin’ of that… when’re you gonna let someone put a ring on that finger, darlin’?"

"Lord, you might be the only unmarried gal left 'round here."

"Ain’t natural, a pretty thing like you, still runnin’ around with no husband."

"I know this real sweet boy over at my church. Works with his hands, good family, don’t drink much…"

"Don’t listen to her, that boy’s mama is a nightmare. But she’s right about one thing. You oughta settle down soon."

"You don't wanna end up like aunt Petunia."

Oh, yeah. Aunt Petunia. Jilted at the altar and never even looked at another man again.

Turned to religion instead. Properly turned, too. Church every Sunday, every Wednesday, and any other day her arthritis doesn't act up. Talks about sin and damnation every chance she gets.

The only unmarried woman in your family. And, naturally, the favorite subject of town gossip.

Somehow, every conversation with these women ends up circling right back to the same thing. A ring on your finger. Preferably sooner rather than later.

And how, at your very grown age, it’s practically a tragedy there isn’t one already.

The screen door creaks as you pull it shut behind you, and a second later the truck engine turns over, loud in the quiet of the evening. Headlights sweep across the yard, catching the fence line, the barn, the edge of the field before swinging away as he backs out.

You watch until the red of the taillights disappears down the road.

For a moment, it’s quiet again.

Just the hum of insects, the distant rustle of something in the grass, the kind of stillness that settles in once the day’s properly done.

You push off the doorframe with a small sigh, stretching your arms over your head until your back cracks.

"Well," you mutter to yourself, "there goes the evening."

Your mama shifts in her chair but still doesn’t look up, already halfway to falling asleep where she sits.

You glance between her and the dark window, then out toward where the barn sits just barely visible in the distance.

Everything seems fine.

No foxes, no whining from one particular sheep, no stray chickens running around the coop. Just peace and quiet.

You shrug it off and go to bed.

────୨ৎ────

If there truly is a hell where people burn at the stake, as your aunt Petunia so often reminds you, then you’re certain their screams sound better than whatever the woolly demon in your barn is making.

Somewhere between a dream and waking, something feels off. Too quiet, then not quiet enough. A sound that doesn’t belong, threading its way into your head until you can’t ignore it anymore.

You frown, shifting under the covers.

There it is again.

Your eyes snap open. You lie there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, listening.

"That fuckin' sheep's gonna be the death of me," you mutter, already pushing yourself up.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, barely awake, shoving your feet into your slippers while rubbing at your eyes. Your nightgown clings to your skin in the heat, an uncomfortable reminder that sleeping with the window open in the middle of summer was a mistake.

"Mama," you call as you step into the hallway, voice still thick with sleep.

No answer.

You head for your parents' room and push the door open. You're not sure how late it actually is, but your dad's side of the bed is empty.

Probably still out playing poker with Joel and God knows who else.

"Mama, wake up."

She groans, shifting under the covers but not opening her eyes. "What?"

"Daisy’s actin' up. She sounds-" you hesitate, listening for another noise from outside. "She sounds wrong."

"She’s fine," your mama mumbles, already turning onto her side. "They do that."

"I don’t think she’s fine."

You stare at her, waiting for her to sit up, to tell you what you're supposed to do.

She doesn’t.

Just pulls the covers higher and settles right back in like you didn’t just wake her up.

"You know daddy's gonna kill us if somethin' happens to Daisy-"

Snoring. She's fucking snoring.

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "Unbelievable."

Fine.

You turn on your heel and head for the door, trying to reach for your boots in the dark hallway.

The night air hits you warm and heavy as soon as you step outside, thick with dust that makes you cough. You don’t hesitate, heading straight for the barn, boots kicking up stray pebbles with every step.

Halfway there, you stop short, squinting into the dark.

"Shit."

You turn back toward the porch, grabbing the old flashlight hanging by the door, thumping it once against your palm until the beam flickers to life.

"Better not die on me now," you mutter, already heading back out.

Another strained sound reaches you before you even get the door open.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming," you mutter, pushing inside.

You hook the flashlight between your shoulder and cheek for a second, fumbling along the wall until your fingers find the old oil lamp.

"Hold on, hold on..."

It takes a second. Longer than it should. Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like.

The wick finally catches, flame flickering weak at first before steadying, casting a warm, uneven glow across the barn.

Shadows stretch and shift along the walls, softer than the harsh electric light but no less unsettling.

You grab the lamp, turning back toward her.

Daisy’s pacing.

Or trying to.

She takes a few stiff, uneven steps, then stops, shifting her weight like she doesn’t know where to put it. Her sides heave, and when she sees you, she lets out another one of those low, strained sounds that twists something in your chest.

Daisy tenses, and the flame trembles with the motion, throwing her shape into something uneven and sharp for a second before settling again.

"Alright," you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else. "Easy."

Your shadow moves when you do, stretching long across the straw, then snapping back in as you lean closer.

"Hey- hey, easy," you say, moving toward her slower this time, hands out.

"Yeah... yeah, that’s it. Calm down," you say quietly.

The barn feels too quiet otherwise.

Too still outside of her breathing, the soft rustle of straw, the occasional creak of wood shifting somewhere above.

Daisy sways again, a strained sound leaving her as she tries to settle. Her sides rise and fall too fast, breath uneven, and for once she doesn’t look at you like she’s about to take your knee out.

"Don't you dare bite me now, girl," you murmur, crouching down beside her.

She just looks tired.

As close as you were to turning her into lamb chops just a few hours ago, the sight does something unpleasant to your conscious.

"Okay," you say, more to yourself than her. "Okay, I’ve seen this. I know this."

You haven’t. Not really.

Not like this. Not alone.

You’ve helped once when your cousin gave birth, but you’re certain it’s a whole different thing when it’s a sheep.

You reach out anyway, resting a hand against her side, feeling the tension there, the way her muscles tighten under your palm. The lamplight flickers with the movement, soft and uneven, catching on your hands and the curve of her body.

"Easy," you murmur. "C’mon, girl."

She lets out another sound, sharper this time, and you wince. "Yeah, I know. I know."

You glance back toward the open barn door for a second, half expecting your mama to suddenly appear, maybe your daddy too, like this is something you don’t have to handle by yourself.

Nothing.

Just the dark yard and the sound of insects humming like nothing’s wrong.

"Great," you mutter. "Love that for me."

Daisy shifts again, and this time she goes down, legs folding under her awkwardly before she settles into the straw. She doesn’t stay still long, though, moving, adjusting, like she can’t get comfortable no matter what she does.

"Alright, alright," you say quickly, moving with her. "That’s fine. That’s… that’s normal, I think."

You drag a hand over your face, trying to remember anything your daddy ever said about this that you actually paid attention to.

You’ve never been one to love the countryside life, even though you were born into it. Always wanting more, always planning on leaving as soon as you could.

Maybe that’s why you pushed back every time your family tried to marry you off to some farmer.

Is it so wrong to want more? Is it so wrong that you don’t want to end up like the other women in your town?

They all seem to think so.

Another strained sound from Daisy pulls your focus right back.

You lean in a little, squinting. "Okay. Okay, I see it."

Your voice drops without you meaning it to, like talking softer might make it easier.

"Yeah, yeah, that’s it," you say quickly. "You’re fine. You’re fine."

You don’t know if she is.

But saying it feels necessary.

Time stretches after that.

You lose track of it somewhere between talking to her like she understands you and trying to keep your hands steady when things get messy.

It takes longer than you expect, longer than you’re comfortable with. You second guess yourself more than once, wondering if you should’ve dragged your mama out of bed anyway or waited for your daddy to get back home.

But somehow, you managed on your own.

────୨ৎ────

You didn't think the most evil creature in all of Texas was able to create such a delicate little thing.

Daisy shifts beside you, low and restless now that the worst of it is over. The lamb presses close to her side, unsteady but trying to stand on its legs.

You push yourself up slowly, joints stiff, brushing straw off your nightgown without really thinking about it. Your legs feel heavy when you stand, boots scraping through the hay as you move closer to the feed.

You scoop some up without thinking, more out of habit than hope, and hold it out toward her.

"Here," you say. "Eat something."

Of course she doesn't listen to you and won't eat anything you're offering. Not the grass, not the hay, won't even drink some water.

She might've just given birth but she's still a stubborn cunt.

You let out a slow breath through your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. "So what, you gonna starve now?"

She looks past you instead. Towards the open barn door. You follow her gaze before you can stop yourself.

Out beyond the yard, past the shining creek and the fence line where dark fields stretch out under the night sky.

And there it is. Corn.

Joel's corn.

You close your eyes for a second.

"No," you say immediately.

Daisy shifts forward like she didn’t hear you, nudging the back of your leg with her head.

You open your eyes again. "Absolutely not."

Behind you, the lamb lets out a small sound, pressing closer to her side.

If she doesn't eat, then her baby doesn't eat.

Darn it.

────୨ৎ────

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Since when does a sheep tell you what to do?

Daddy would get angry if he found out that his precious baby gave birth and didn't have anything to eat.

Stupidest reasoning you've ever concocted.

But you've done worse than steal from your neighbor's cornfield. Much worse, if you're being honest. And with no reasoning at all, so does it really matter now?

You find a weak point faster than you should.

Of course you do.

One of the fence posts leans just enough, wire sagging where time and weather have already done half the work for you. You step closer, testing it with your hands first. The wood shifts slightly under your grip, old and tired.

You plant your boot on the lower wire, gripping the post with one hand while the other keeps the flashlight angled awkwardly between your fingers. The wood digs into your fingers as you haul yourself up, nightgown catching on the wire for a second before you yank it free.

"Ow, shit," you hiss quietly, not stopping.

You swing one leg over, then the other, balancing there for a breathless second at the top.

Then you lower yourself down on the other side, boots hitting the ground with a soft, uneven thud. Your knees bend to take the weight, and the flashlight jerks hard in your hand, beam skittering across the rows of corn before you steady it again.

Your boots sink slightly into the softer ground beyond the yard, grass brushing your legs as you move faster than you probably should. The flashlight beam cuts a narrow path ahead of you, bouncing with every step, catching on fence posts and patches of uneven earth.

The corn moves slightly in the night wind, tall and dark around you, swallowing the edges of the light.

One step in and the world changes. The fence is gone behind you, the barn somewhere farther than it should feel, and all that’s left is rows of tall stalks shifting softly in the wind.

You lift the flashlight, sweeping it ahead.

Light catches on leaves, gold-green and sharp at the edges, throwing shadows that move when you move. It feels like the field is watching you back, which is ridiculous, but so is everything else about tonight.

The stalks brush your arms as you push through them, dry leaves scratching at your skin, whispering every time you pass. The sound of your own breathing starts to feel too loud, so you focus on the light instead.

You shift the flashlight, biting down on it so it rests between your teeth, freeing your hands. The beam tilts upwards now, illuminating more sky than ground, but it is enough. Just enough to see where your fingers are going.

"There," you mumble around it.

You reach out, grabbing one of the stalks.

It is thicker than you expect, rough under your palm. You pull a few ears free, stuffing them quickly into the crook of your arm before moving to the next. The corn husks crinkle loudly in your hands, every sound feeling bigger out here than it should.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter again, voice muffled.

The flashlight slips slightly between your teeth as you speak, and you tighten your jaw to hold it steady. Somewhere behind you, the field shifts with the wind, corn bending and straightening like it is breathing.

You hear a crunch of boots through dry stalks that is not yours.

You freeze so fast your whole body locks up, flashlight still clenched between your teeth, corn pressed tight against your chest.

Then light cuts through the rows.

A second beam.

Please let it not be Joel, please let it not be Joel, please-

Well, of course it's Joel. It's his goddamn field, isn't it?

You shift slightly, like moving will somehow make you less visible, but the moment you do, the corn in your arms slips. One ear hits the ground. Then another. The whole bundle follows in a soft, humiliating cascade of thuds and rustling husks.

"Shit-" you whisper around the flashlight.

The second beam adjusts immediately.

Now it finds your face properly.

You blink against it, raising a hand to shield your eyes, corn scattered all around your boots like evidence you cannot undo.

When your vision finally adjusts to the light, you see that it's not only a flashlight pointed at your face, but a rifle too.

Could this night get any more shitty than it already is?

You take the flashlight out of your mouth slowly, like that might somehow make this less embarrassing, and swallow.

"What the fuck are you doin'? Get that thing outta my face."

The light doesn’t move.

"What am I doin'?" comes the reply, calm as anything. "What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night? I coulda shot ya."

What are you supposed to do? Thank him for not killing you?

You stare at him through your lashes, irritation rising quicker than any common sense you should have right now.

"Weren't you supposed to be out playing poker?"

A beat passes where neither of you really moves. The flashlight is still pointed at you, though it dips slightly now, enough that you can actually see him instead of just being blinded by it.

He looks down first, then past you, then at the ground like he is trying to understand what he is looking at. It takes him a second too long to say anything, which already makes this worse.

"Fuckin' thief," he says finally, like he is still processing it. Then his eyes come back to you. "What would your daddy say if he found out about what you're doin'?"

"He’s not gonna find out," you say quickly.

Joel lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he has already heard enough.

"The hell he is," he mutters.

Before you can react, he steps forward, closing the distance in two long strides. His free hand wraps around your arm, not rough but not giving you much of a choice either. Close like this you can see the rifle in his other hand clearly, a reminder that you should probably behave.

"Hey-" you start, pulling back instinctively.

"Come on," he says, already turning you with him. "You’re gonna tell him yourself what kinda thievin' kid he raised under his roof."

You stumble a step before catching your balance, forced into motion as he guides you back the way you came. The corn brushes against you again, louder now that you are not sneaking, the flashlight beam jerking in your hand as you try to keep up without tripping over uneven ground.

"The corn wasn't even for me, it was for Daisy-"

"Daisy?"

Yeah, playing the sheep card, that's totally gonna work.

"Yeah," you say, a little too defensive now, "My sheep."

He keeps walking, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let go of your arm.

"You broke into my field for a sheep," he says.

"I didn’t break in," you shoot back. "And she just gave birth, for your information."

Not that he cares.

You reach the edge of the field, the fence coming back into view, and he finally slows. His grip loosens just enough that you can pull away. You yank your arm free, taking a few steps back.

"Daddy ain't even home," you add. "Thought he was out playin' poker with you."

"I didn’t go tonight," he says.

You frown. "What?"

A little late to find out that he was home the entire time. Maybe if you knew from the start you wouldn't have snuck in his field.

You cross your arms anyway. "Well, he went. So he’s not here. Which means there’s no reason for you to be draggin’ me back like I’m five."

He looks at you for a second, then says, "You've always had such a mouth on you, sweetheart."

You don’t answer him right away. That alone makes it worse, because now it’s just quiet. Too quiet.

What if he does tell your dad that you snuck on his property and tried to steal from him?

Then you'd be fucked.

The thought sits heavy in your chest longer than you want it to. Not enough to scare you straight, but enough to make you stop talking for a second.

Wait, what the fuck is that?

A sound cuts through the corn behind you. Growling..?

The rustling comes harder now, closer, moving through the rows in a way that doesn’t sound like wind.

Something bursts through the edge of the corn a second later, low to the ground, fast enough that your brain doesn’t fully register it at first.

Then it does.

Fucking fox. Probably on its way to kill your chickens.

You step back too quickly, boots catching on uneven dirt and broken stalks. Your heel slips, your balance goes before you can fix it.

"Shit-"

It happens fast. One second you’re upright, the next you’re going down hard into the dirt and scattered corn. The flashlight flies from your grip, beam jerking across the ground, cutting through stalks before it drops out completely. The batteries must’ve come loose.

For a second, everything is just noise. Your own breathing, the rustle of the corn, your heartbeat too loud in your ears.

A shot is fired. The loud noise startles you even more than it did the fox who crawled under the fence and ran off.

You don’t move right away. You’re still half on your side in the dirt, one hand braced under you, the other feeling blindly for the flashlight.

You don’t even acknowledge Joel until his rifle lands on the dirt beside you, smoke still curling from the barrel. Not long after, his flashlight is thrown down too, the beam angled uselessly into the ground.

The light spills forward, cutting across the dirt and broken corn stalks, making it harder to see him properly when you turn your head. Just shape and shadow now. Close enough that you know he’s there.

You’re still on your hands and knees, trying to get your footing back, palms pressed into the dirt while you push yourself up a little at a time. The ground shifts slightly under you as you move, uneven and stubborn.

Then a thought flashes through your mind, an undeniably bad one.

If trespassing and stealing weren’t good enough reasons to get you reported to your father, you were about to give him something truly worth reporting.

You give him another look over your shoulder, even though you can't really see him you can tell he's kneeling or crouching behind you.

Perfect.

That was it. You snap your heel backward and upward, swinging your leg around in a pass meant to land squarely between Joel’s legs.

That's for scaring the shit out of you with that rifle of his.

Your aim isn't at its best in the pitch-black night, but what you lacked in precision you made up for in force, your foot drove in hard where you assumed his groin was.

From the way your heel drove into him and the sound that tore out of his throat, you figured you’d landed it well enough. But when you turned your head again, you saw his silhouette clutching his stomach.

A little lower next time, maybe.

You figure that this is a pretty good time to run away, so you try to sit upright and bolt straight for the fence.

But you don't get far. Something clamps around you ankle dragging you right back. You lose your balance mid trying to stand up and fall straight to your face.

What you don't expect is a sudden retaliatory strike.

You feel his hand gripping a fistful of your nightgown, hauling it up until you can feel a gentle breeze grazing the skin of your hips.

A sharp, abrupt slap lands against the curve of your ass. Your mouth drops open in shock. You barely have time to react before another hit snaps across your cheek.

"Fuckin' hell.. your daddy should've done this to ya a long time ago, sweetie," he muses through his teeth.

It's not the first time you're being told that you need a good ol' spanking. You never actually got one, so maybe that's why you're so shocked to feel Joel, out of all people, do it.

"Spoiled little thing, ain't ya..? Thinkin' everything should go your way.."

Sounds familiar?

Maybe you and Daisy aren't that different after all.

You let out a short, breathless laugh despite yourself, more annoyed than intimidated and lift your ass up in the air, wiggling your hips at him.

He lets out a low grunt and moves in closer, clearly unamused by your teasing. The air around you thickens with the soft scent of worn leather, dry hay, and fresh wood shavings, all layered with the salty tang of skin that’s spent the whole day beneath the sun.

Well, this is clearly one strange way to convince him not to tell your father what you've done tonight.

Your teeth clamp down so hard you almost bite clean through your lower lip, trying to hold back a reaction you can't quite control. The night around you feels even tighter somehow, the cornfield pressing in on all sides, the rustle of dry stalks shifting with every faint movement.

Then something shifts behind you and a new sensation cuts through everything. Warmth presses against you, sudden and intrusive, and you go completely still for a heartbeat, your thoughts stalling in the dark as a finger pushes your underwear to the side.

For a moment, you stay frozen, caught in the pitch-black field while the corn rustles around you and the silence stretches tight and uneasy.

He teases you lightly with the tips of his fingers, hovering at your entrance. A sharp, consuming need coils through you, tightening your thighs as you respond instinctively, your body betraying you and deepening the slick warmth that gathers against his hand.

Then, without much warning, he slips a finger into your warmth and curls it just right. The sensation pulls a sharp sound from you, your fingers burying into the dirt underneath you.

A mix of intensity and emotion overwhelms you, so strong it stings behind your eyes. You tremble as your body responds to him, sensitivity heightening everything he does. When he adds another finger, it’s slower this time and you gasp at the stretch and pressure, your breath catching as he works you carefully.

"Gonna hurt a little, baby," he murmurs behind you.

Your gaze is fixed forward, at the rifle laying on the ground next to you, at the flashlight that does absolutely nothing to help you see the man behind you. You almost extend an arm to grab it, but you stop yourself when Joel's hand leaves your cunt. You sigh at the loss, arching your back into him.

You hear the faint clink of his belt buckle, followed by the soft scrape of his zipper coming down. A moment later, there’s the rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans down.

His hands slide around your back, holding you close as he draws you in. His pelvis is flush against yours, what you assume is his cock heavy against your thigh.

A sudden rush of emotion and intensity floods through you, scattering your thoughts until they drift loose and unfocused, leaving your mind suspended.

You feel the cold press of his belt against the back of your leg, the nudge of his cock between your thighs, hands groping over your hips, squeezing the soft flesh in his rough palms.

The head of his cock grazes your swollen clit, going up to nudge itself at your entrance. Then something warm and sticky lands between your folds.

"Did you just fuckin' spit on me?"

His cock slaps against your moist folds with a squelching sound, making you clench around nothing.

"Language, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth.

You should recoil from his touch and tell him that spitting is fucking gross, but before you can protest further he smears it up your slit. He slots his head against your hole and you let out a strangled noise, vision blurring further into the dark as he slams into you.

There is an ache as he pushes in, a stinging sensation that dulls with the warmth and pressure of him settling heavily inside you. Spreading you apart in his hands, he spits yet again, the glob of saliva landing at the base where he's buried to the hilt inside you.

"So fuckin’ tight, sweetie," he says. He reaches around to rub your puffy nub, a move that makes your entire body shiver.

Joel moves his other palm up your back, finding purchase in the braid resting on your back, tugging it until your back arches even more. He lets a low groan escape out of his throat while he rocks his hips back and forth.

For a moment he withdraws, gripping your hair even tighter, then he drives his cock to nestle inside your cunt again. The circles on your clit and harsh movements may as well set your whole body on fire.

You are filled to your limit, overwhelmed by heat and slick need, your body trembling as each sharp thrust draws another helpless sound from your throat. Already worn down, overstimulated, and desperate, you’re barely a second away from begging him to slow down.

A sharp slap echoes as your bodies meet, the sound punctuating the moment, and a muffled whimper slips past your clenched teeth as the sensation of your climax crests and pulls you under.

You let out a soft, broken sound, your back arching even as you instinctively pull away, caught between retreat and need. Your body wavers, unsure whether to escape the overwhelming sensation or press closer, chasing it instead.

Your fluttering walls push him over the edge. You feel him twitching inside you before he pulls out, his release spilling across the curve of your lower back.

The sound hits you both at the same time.

That low, familiar rumble of your daddy's truck engine rolling up the dirt road. You turn your head and there they are, behind Joel and the crooked fence, the headlights cutting across the yard like a warning.

You shove forward, scrambling out from under him, hands slipping in the dirt as you try to push yourself upright. Your nightgown is still bunched up, hair half pulled loose, breath uneven as you drag the fabric back down your legs, fingers clumsy, not working fast enough.

Everything feels both sluggish and impossibly fast, as if time itself has lost its rhythm, every sound ricochets in his ears, yet nothing truly reaches his mind, the light is so harsh it sears his vision. A rush of euphoria floods through him when he turns his head and sees you on the other side of the bed.

The air brushes against him from every direction at once, cool and warm in slow, alternating waves. It grazes his skin like a living thing, stirring a shiver that travels deeper than it should. He feels unbearably sensitive, his body is too aware, too awake.

You climb onto the bed slowly. The mattress dips beneath your weight, the soft creak of springs crashing through his ears like thunder. Every small shift sounds enormous, distorted by the fevered sharpness of his senses.

You move around him on your knees, circling with quiet intent, like a serpent coiling around its prey. He can feel the air change as you pass, the warmth of you nearing, retreating, nearing again.

The flowers in your hair brush lightly against his shoulder as you pass behind him. Petals drag across his skin in fleeting touches that feel brighter than they should.

He twists his head sharply, pulse racing, searching for you in the blur of light and shadow.

But you’re not there.

Every time he tries to focus, to pin you down in his wavering vision, you’ve already shifted.

One moment you’re sitting on a chair, the next you’re tangled in the window's curtains, then somehow laid down on the bed, though he never hears you move.

You vanish without a sound, without even the courtesy of a disturbance in the air, and reappear as if you had always been there.

His breath grows uneven. The room feels unstable, rearranging itself around your absence and return.

In his dreams, the world refuses to stay still.

Objects slip in and out of existence as though reality itself is undecided. Sometimes there’s a small stool and you’re crouched upon it, watching him with unreadable patience. Other nights the stool becomes a rocking chair, swaying gently though no one touches it. He could swear he has seen you on a swing, suspended in midair, drifting back and forth without chains, without gravity.

Once, there was a crib.

You leaned over it, gazing inside with a softness that made his chest ache. He never sees what rests within. He is never allowed that mercy. That image lingers longest of all.

Sound obeys no logic either. It swells without warning, then collapses into nothing. Most nights there is a suffocating silence, thick and absolute. Other times bells explode through the air like thunderclaps, shaking the walls. A distant guitar drifts through unseen corridors. Forgotten laughter ripples through his mind, bright and fleeting. And sometimes, piercing and fragile, he hears the cry of a little girl he once held in trembling arms, a long time ago.

You remember her reading to you from her old bible.

"Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body."

Is that what you were now? Sexually immoral?

You can already hear it, clear as anything. The way her voice would sharpen when she called you a whore for what you've done last night.

You shift slightly, the wood creaking under you, and glance sideways.

Your mama is beside you, already crying again, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that’s probably soaked through by now. Her shoulders shake every few seconds, trying to keep it quiet and failing.

Your daddy sits on your other side. Hat in his hands this time, turning it slowly between his fingers. His eyes stay forward, fixed on the casket, but there’s nothing in them.

Aunt Petunia looks smaller than you remember. Or maybe just quieter. That’s the strangest part of it. No voice, no comments, no sharp looks over the rim of her glasses.

"Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him, do not fret when men succeed in their ways, when they carry out their wicked schemes."

She warned you countless times about men and sins of the body. You never listened.

Is that what happened last night? Did Joel carry out a "wicked scheme"? Did you carry out a wicked scheme? The questions don’t sit right in your head, because neither of them feels like what it was.

Nothing was planned on your part, your intention was to get some corn for Daisy and go back home, preferably without getting caught.

But what about Joel?

Wasn't he supposed to be out playing poker? Why was he at home and, very conveniently, out in the field at the same exact time?

Nah, that's a preposterous concept. It must've been a coincidence. An unexpected occurrence that somehow still happened.

The priest keeps talking.

Something about peace. About God’s plan. About how she’s in a better place now. A prayer for her soul and eternal rest.

But you don't listen. Instead, you pray for your own soul.

Hail Mary who art in heaven, pray for all the sinners.