That night—if it was night—Becky gave birth. Not to a child. To a cluster of roots, warm and pulsing, that squirmed from her body and buried themselves in the soil before she could scream. Ross watched with wet, adoring eyes. “The grass thanks you,” he said. “It was hungry for something new.”
And she understood, with the terrible clarity of the grass, that the voice had never been the boy’s. It had been hers. From next week. From last year. From the version of herself that had already tried to leave and was still walking, still calling, still hoping someone would be stupid enough to come in. In The Tall Grass
Help. Please, I’m lost. Just one step in. What’s the harm? That night—if it was night—Becky gave birth