Above a thousand fireflies twitter, their glow like shimmering yellow citrines. The bugs become flames. Stalks of corn resemble citronella torches, flames swaying in the wind. We don’t intend on turning back to extinguish the flames; don’t have the time. We don’t care, her and I. Excluding the rush of the wind and the crackling of burning husks, the fields are silent. Only nature is present. Only nature is present scares us. Then a thumping. She claims footsteps. I claim heartbeats. Moonlight blinds us, like truck high beams on a country road. Glancing back, I find the light bouncing back towards my eyes from something straight. Something sharp. Something drawing closer. “Please don’t let it get us,” she whispers, but her voice is too faint for me to hear, for my legs lift me away, like a soul exiting a body. Stalks bend as I dash. She’s bumped to the ground. Part of me leaves her there. Part of me returns.