I think I can still feel the sharp grass, splintering my cold feet. The wind runs her fingers through my hair, and the sea of prairie grasses sway.

I sway with it. In the distance, bare gray trees draw a line across the horizon, hiding the moon in their tangles.

I tread silently through the foliage, observing. A dull web glimmers in the dew, the carcass of a cricket rustles, and the dripping moon heaves herself out of the brambles.

The further I walk, the more discomfort rises from my stomach, and yet I grow more determined with every breath the sky takes.

The night air is loud, a storm of owl song, coyotes, and crickets. I hold my hands over my cold ears and press foreword through the thick sound.

My head aches, and the world buzzes as I run, my whole body hurts and feels heavy, and ahead of me I see a dark shape.

As I come to a slow, the heaviness lifts off of me, and I can feel my back cooled by moonlight. I crouch down and the tallest grasses brush my face and blur in front of my eyes. I shift forward to the illuminated shadow and look into my face. My body is tangled in grass and cloth, and my thin skin is coated in a layer of moonlight. I stroke my cold hair and hold my drooping face in my hands. My head smells like dried blood. I lay next to my crumpled self and look at the stars though my new ghostly eyes.