By Sean Ealy
The first time I saw the little girl was in the field.
Appearing out of the wheat, she came to me like an apparition, and I almost hit her with the combine.
“What’s the matter with you?” I said, wiping sweat out of my eyes. “What are you doing out here?”
Her eyes were as black and as indifferent as the dress she wore, her blonde hair pulled back from her scalp in tight braids. Her skin was the color of winter moonlight. She might have been ten or maybe eleven, but something about the way she inspected me seemed mature beyond her years. Almost ancient.