Ravenous blood-red worms convulse on end in the murky field, as if boiled on a hotplate. Seizing the rolling fog that looks like steam. Making fleshy wet slapping noises as stomachs turn. There's few else around, a student passing on the trail behind, looking in my direction; but not at the field, nor the blood-red worms. They're gone, look back. Pick a branch, dry and hollowed. Approach and reach forward, forward, forward.