The road turns from asphalt to gravel. Corn passes. Gravel to dirt. More corn. Dirt to mostly grass, and it goes downhill sharply, past the sunset. The old truck wobbles to a stop at the edge of a dark, thick stand of oaks. You get out. You get this eery feeling you’ve been here before, but with—less hair? Different clothes? A different—name? You look around for your companion, but he is gone. Where the road ends the path begins. Welcome! It is the trees that say it, but it sounds more like a demand than an invitation. Well, you’re going to have to follow the path, regardless. You’re scared shitless. Night is coming. Thank god at least it’s warm. The path, on secreting you into the trees, turns sharply right, following the ridge line back uphill. You should be able to see the road from up here, but— What was that? You’ve only read about this—the certainty you’re being followed. Your jaw is stiff, your pace robotic, faster. Keep walking. Your blue blood knows it will be red before too long, screaming toward the night air, reuniting with the stars. There is poetry in death. Even yours.