Becky. Cal. And the child of roots. All found. None leave.
The grass grew three feet overnight, every night, forever. In The Tall Grass
Cal stopped trying to escape first. He sat down cross-legged, began braiding grass into a small, intricate doll. “It’s easier if you don’t fight,” he said, not looking at her. “The field just wants a story. A new one.” All found
Becky clutched her belly and waded in. Time doesn’t pass in the tall grass. It loops. Cal stopped trying to escape first
Becky and Cal had pulled over because she was going to be sick. Six months pregnant, brother and sister on a road trip to San Diego, and the winding Kansas backroad had undone her. He’d said, Just five minutes, get some air.
“Help. Please, I’m lost.”
Help. Please, I’m lost.