Who took my lucky goddamned foot!” John wakes up in a pelting rain. The girl is on her hands and knees next to him, shrieking like a starving bird. In the semidarkness, with her pale, mud-streaked skin and hair plastered to her head, she looks like a living cadaver. He reaches out and touches her shoulder. She snarls, “The rain’ll ruin it! Turn it to shit!” He looks down and sees both her bare feet, mud-stained, but where they ought to be. He wonders if she’s gone insane. Or if he has. “Leave it,” he screams. “We’ll come back for it later!” A thunderclap blots out her answer. “Come on! Run for the trailer!” “Not without my foot!” She throws his hand off, starts rifling the grass again. John glances up at the trailer. Several lights are on. A shadow fills the basement window, a head and two hands next to the cabinets where his tools are stored, another light in the master bedroom. John tries to stand, but in the slick grass his feet slip out from beneath him.
