Martin could not remember how he ended up on the old dirt road that led back to his family home.

The shivering rows of brown corn stalks ran down the length of the road on either side of him.

The sky was blue, uncannily blue.

It stretched over the road like the top of a glass dome.

He felt sort of like a bug, caught underneath a teacup, although he could not understand why.

It was just that sort of feeling.

There was not a cloud in the sky, but there was no sight of the sun either.

It was cold, maybe colder than it should have been for autumn.

At least, he vaguely remembered that it should be autumn.

Otherwise, the corn stalks would be green and bursting, ready to be stripped of their offerings.

Home was just down the road, wasn't it?

The heel of his boot rested in the divot of a pothole that was deep enough

to collect water at the bottom, even though he could not remember the last time it had rained.

He moved his heel back and forth, digging a little into the mud. He had to get home. He

wasn't sure why. It was an overwhelming word that aided him from the inside,

like there was a creature sitting just behind his ribs,

holding his heart and twisting it every which way like an orchard worker,

trying to pick an apple off its branch.

He had tried everything, hadn't he?

He had tried calling. He had tried writing. But letters were

sent back unopened, and calls went straight to voicemail. He tried to picture the last letter that he

sent. All he could remember was a long white envelope, but everything across the front looked like

...