By the time Sam and I bust through the corn, it’s almost completely dark. It’s been one of the more stressful days in recent memory. I’ve never been much of a drinker, and I’ve already had some wine and a taste of Sam’s whiskey, but man oh man, I could use a stiff one — or three — right about now.
“Sam, you want to stay for dinner?” I say as if asking such a basic question will somehow inject some normalcy back into our lives.
“How about I stay for the night?” He’s once more focused on the cornfield, the way the early moon shines its white light upon on the stalks, giving them the appearance of steely gray branches. “I don’t like what’s happening out there.”
In my head, I see the blood on the stalk, and I know for certain Sam shot something. Maybe what he shot was an animal. The anima
