Page 1 of The Farmer
1
PARKER
“Oh my God, I’m about to die here alone.”
I stop in my tracks, craning my head to find the source of the sound, my massive frame going still as I listen intently. There's a sniffle followed by a deep, shuddering sob that echoes through the stalks. I make the loop around the edge of the cornfield, my heavy boots crunching against dry, cracked soil that hasn't seen rain in weeks. The voice seems to dance around me, bouncing between the walls of corn.
The sun is dipping low, casting long shadows across the golden stalks. This time of year, the corn’s high and rustling, and the maze threads through it, twisting and hiding whatever’s inside. The fading light paints everything in shades of amber and deep purple, making the familiar paths seem suddenly foreign and threatening.
I run a hand over the edge of the weather-beaten wooden sign hammered in at the entrance—Cornfield Maze: Sponsored by Priest Farms. The wood is rough beneath my fingers, worn smooth in places by countless visitors. I never understood whythe town kept choosing it for the biannual fair, considering how much work it takes to maintain.
I mean, sure, the kids love it, squealing with delight as they race through the paths. Parents, too, and teenagers who feel a bit adventurous and want to sneak off into the shadows. But it's still just rows of corn and a few carved-out paths that I have to check and recheck every morning. Nothing special, except maybe the backbreaking work it takes to keep it presentable for these city folks.
Why do they like it? I have no idea. Have none of them read Children of the Corn or Clown in a Cornfield? Hell, even my grandma used to tell stories about people disappearing into corn mazes, their screams echoing through the stalks until they faded into nothing but whispers on the wind.
I stop walking. There it is again, the unmistakable sound of crying. Yup, it’s definitely human and a girl.
I squint toward the center of the maze, where the stalks grow thickest and the shadows pool like ink between the rows. Could be one of the kids. It’s not unheard of. Every year, someone gets turned around, panics, starts yelling. We have volunteers with radios for that exact reason, though they're about as useful as screen doors on a submarine most days. But this doesn’t sound like a kid. Not really.
Sighing, I lift my face to the sky. I could be sitting at home, sipping my coffee, and listening to my grandpa’s record collection. Instead, I’m here. All the other townsfolk looked forward to fairs and festivals, but not me.
I’d rather stay at home and tend to my animals. At least they don't expect conversation, and their problems can usually besolved with feed or fresh water, not whatever emotional disaster I'm about to walk into.
This year, the mayor even invited the press from three counties over. So not only do I have to deal with rowdy, rude, privileged tourists trampling my crops and leaving their trash everywhere, but I also need to suffer through guys with cameras and mics shoving their equipment in my face, asking stupid questions.
Great. Just great. If I didn’t have to talk to another person from the city, it would be too soon.
The crying gets louder—bordering on hysterical now, with little hiccuping gasps between sobs—and I sigh so deep it feels like my lungs are scraping bottom.
Every damn year. Without fail.
I rub my jaw, stare out at the wall of corn, and debate just walking away. But no, I already hear it—the whispers tomorrow. “Parker just left her there? Figures.” God forbid I keep to myself in a town that treats my land like a public park twice a year.
My boots kick up dry dirt as I duck into the maze. The path curves left, then right, then tightens like a noose, and the sobs pull me like a rope. It’s always something. A lost kid with sticky fingers and scraped knees. A full-blown tantrum over dropped ice cream. Teenagers making out against my irrigation pipes. A couple breaking up next to the scarecrow, like I'm not farming on the other side of the damn row, trying to mind my own business while their drama echoes across my field.
I don’t even like people. Never have.
Don’t like the noise. Don’t like the mess.
Sure as hell don’t like the town committee strong-arming me into this twice a year. My field gets trampled. Kids run wild like feral animals, screaming at decibels that'd make a banshee proud. I fake-smile for photos until my face twitches. “Smile, Parker! Look friendly!” Friendly, my ass. I'd rather wrestle an angry bull than pose for another damn picture.
The voice stops me cold.
“Yep, definitely dying here. When they discover my body, I'm going to be just bones, bleached white and probably mistaken for another one of those tacky Halloween decorations. Then, no one will know who I am. And God, my plants at home will die, too. They're probably already plotting their revenge from beyond the grave.”
Hysterical and talkative—all the things I hate in humans, wrapped up in one voice that's managing to sound both dramatic and genuinely distressed at the same time. Just what I need at the end of an already long day.
My boots crunch faster as I move closer, pushing between stalks where the perimeter thins. My pulse picks up. The fair’s been over for an hour. Everyone should be gone. The parking lot’s already half-empty.
What if someone stayed behind? What if they're hurt? Despite my antisocial tendencies, I'm not actually heartless.
I push past a row and freeze.
There—knees drawn to her chest, sitting right on the dirt path between corn stalks—is a woman. She’s hugging and rocking herself.
I slow down when I get close. She hasn’t seen me yet.
From behind, I think she’s a teen—small frame, sneakers, denim, plain white tee. Her strawberry blonde hair glows silver under the moonlight, soft and wild against the dark corn around her, flowing past her shoulders in waves. She’s curled in on herself, shoulders hitching with every sob.
