“Help. Please, I’m lost.”
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.” In The Tall Grass
She took one step.
Then they heard the boy.