I stare across the vast expanse of land that separates us from our enemy, waiting for the tells of an attack that may not come at this late hour. The pits of my uniform are damp with beads of sweat that roll down my abdomen, hunger gnaws at my belly, and I wear my exhaustion like a wool coat in the blazing months of a Kentucky summer. 

They startled at the sound of a voice, a cheerful rasp that managed to project across the expanse of road that stood between them and it. Beneath the brim of its hat, the scarecrows’ expression appeared alive, its soiled burlap skin wrinkled into one of glee.

They were dumped unceremoniously at the top of a narrow landing, their captor uncaring whether or not they toppled down the steep stairs. Even as he stumbled forward, Harold was mindful as he grabbed the stair's railing that he didn't cut his finger on the splintered wood. Their captor, a tall sunken-eyed fellow, didn't seem like the sort of person to carry a First Aid kit. He also didn't seem like the type to brandish such an expensive watch, but maybe kidnapping three teenagers paid the bills and then some?