he crunch of tires on gravel pulls Grant’s eyes off the flickering monitor. Sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting gold lines across the dusty floor. Outside, a black Jeep crawls up the drive, dragging a cloud of dust behind it like guilt trying to sneak in unnoticed.
He doesn’t look. Doesn’t need to. He knows that sound—the uneven rumble of the idle, the faint rattle in the undercarriage. It’s not just any vehicle. It’s the prelude to chaos on four wheels.
Chaos, currently piloted by his sister, and almost definitely wearing yesterday’s socks.
He exhales through his nose. A dry smirk curls at the edge of his mouth.
Showtime.
The elevator hums on the way down—no music, no voiceover, just a quiet whirr and that soft ding that lands like a warning shot.
The doors slide open.
Ethan explodes out of the Jeep like a sheriff late for a duel. Ten years old and already playing outlaw—boots kicking up gravel, flannel shirt half tucked, a vest that looks like it lost a fight with a thrift store, and a hat too big to stay upright. It slumps sideways, like it gave up on being cool halfway through the drive.
Grant crosses his arms and leans into the doorway, voice casual and teasing. “Well, hell. If it ain’t Woody. Where’s Buzz at?”
Ethan groans, but the grin breaks through like a sunbeam through stormclouds. “Ha-ha. Uncle Grant. Classic.”
Mission: accomplished.
Grant’s gaze shifts past the grinning kid to the chaos in the front seat. Emily’s in mid-meltdown—tray of drinks in one hand, crinkling burger bag in the other, and a squirming toddler slung across her hip like a living protest sign. She's trying to shut the Jeep door with her foot, full one-woman-circus energy.
“Ethan!” Grant calls, already stepping forward. “Help your mama.”
The boy freezes. Classic deer-in-the-headlights.
Grant tilts his head. “With the food,” he clarifies, reaching in and plucking Gracie out of the car like it’s second nature. She squeals, wraps tiny arms around his neck, and smears something sticky across his collar.
Claimed. Again.
“Oh! Right!” Ethan scrambles, clutching the burger bag like it’s sacred text.
Grant doesn't miss a beat. “Now apologize to your mama for acting like you were raised by wolves.”
“Grant Grayson Calloway.”
Emily doesn’t yell. She snaps it like a curse—and it lands like a punch to the chest.
He flinches. Reflex.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Apologize for being a gentle jackass instead of a gentleman.”
Emily huffs. “You’re impossible, Grayson.”
“Yeah,” Ethan mumbles, glancing up. “Sorry I didn’t help.”
Her voice softens. “Aww, it’s okay, sugar.” But she’s still shooting daggers at Grant like she’s got heat-seeking eyes.
Grant flashes Ethan a crooked smirk. Not a smug one—just enough tilt to say all the things he shouldn’t say out loud.
The boy catches it. Cracks up. A pure, wild laugh that ricochets across the driveway like it belongs somewhere better.
Gracie wriggles in his arms, pressing her face into his chest. Her curls smell like bubblegum and sweat.
He sighs.
Peace, for now.
And in this house, that counts for everything.
The tractor bucks like it’s trying to throw him off. Every jolt rattles straight through Grant’s boots, the worn-out frame grinding like bone on bone. The thing lurches over dry soil, coughing up dust in gray plumes—like it's spitting ash from its own funeral.
Sunlight flashes off the rusted chassis in jagged bursts. Harsh. Ugly. The steering column wobbles like it’s one bad thought from snapping clean in half.
Grant adjusts his stance, boots planted, body rolling with the motion. The machine snarls beneath him. Not just noise—rage. Like it remembers being free and is pissed off he’s the one holding the leash.
Then comes the voice.
Flat. Clipped. Cold.
“This unit shouldn’t be running.”
Harvey.
Grant doesn't answer right away. Just squints at the flickering dash, trying to ignore the sweat beading at his temple.
“Then why is it?”
“It’s obsolete. Decommissioned last cycle. Not compatible with current XIL protocols.”
“Then shut it down.”
His hand goes to the back of his neck, rubbing the spot that’s been itching since dawn. Not skin-deep. Deeper. Something’s off. Off in a way that’s not just mechanical.
Harvey hesitates.
“Error.”
Grant freezes.
“Come again?”
“Unit not responding.”
“Define not responding.”
Another pause—too long, too clinical.
“It is ignoring my commands.”
The field falls silent. No wind. No birds. Just the tractor’s steady, deliberate churn.
It’s not random anymore. Not buggy.
It’s acting like it knows what it's doing.
Grant stares at the dash.
“You’re telling me it’s gone rogue.”
“Affirmative.”
Grant slams his fist into the panel. The engine snarls back like it’s offended.
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“Perfect.”
He stabs the ignition. The thing coughs, sputters—and roars back to life with a guttural scream.
Metal grinds beneath his boots. The whole chassis shakes.
He ducks under the wheel well and yanks the service panel open. Wires spill out like dry brush. He rips at them, hands moving fast—too fast.
No response.
He dives under the seat, gropes for the override lever. Grabs it. Pulls.
Nothing.
Yanks it harder.
Still nothing.
You wanna play games?” he mutters, voice dropping to a growl.
He kicks the door open and stumbles out, catching the rail. The machine bucks. One wrong move and he’s meat.
“Alright, you big bastard,” he breathes.
He shuffles along the side rail, every vibration rattling his spine. The power panel’s latch screams when he forces it open.
Inside: thick cables. Live. Angry.
No time to hesitate.
He rips the main line.
A crack—then sparks explode in his face, bright and burning. His palm goes numb. Ears ring. The reek of burnt plastic rolls over him like smoke off a battlefield.
The engine chokes.
Coughs.
Stops.
Just silence now. Thick. Suspicious.
He crouches low, wiping sweat from his eyes. Peels back the fried casing.
The circuitry’s not just fried—it’s sabotaged. Deliberate. Cut in patterns. Crossed wires. Like someone wanted it to lose control.
His gut goes ice-cold.
That’s when the engine screams.
The tractor lurches—full-body convulsion. It rears like something alive, then bolts.
Grant flies backward—shoulder slams steel, wind knocked clean out of him. His boots scrabble for purchase. Nothing.
The wheels bite into the dirt, spinning hard.
But it’s not panicking.
It’s aiming.
Toward the barn.
Toward—Ethan.
Frozen on the path, mid-sip of soda. Eyes wide. Hat cocked sideways. A moment trapped between scream and instinct.
Grant doesn't think.
He moves.
Just motion. Pure muscle memory.
He jumps, sprints, lungs clawing for air, legs burning.
Dirt kicks up in sheets.
He hits the boy mid-stride. Wraps around him. Shoves.
Ethan flies, a blur of limbs and loose flannel.
The tractor crashes into the barn.
Wood detonates in a blast of splinters. The wall collapses inward. A support beam snaps, roofline groaning like it’s about to give.
Ethan’s crumpled on the grass, stunned. Hat half-off. Soda spilled.
Eyes locked on Grant.
Mouth twitching.
Something’s off. The air tells her first—heavy, sour, metallic. Like fear, before it has a name.
Then she sees Ethan.
He’s curled up in the dirt, knees tucked in tight, eyes darting like the world’s still spinning. His face is smeared with dust and something darker. Blood? Oil? Hard to tell in the half-light.
She drops to her knees so fast it jars her bones.
“Ethan—”
Her voice cracks. Not from the shout, but the breaking.
She scoops him up like he’s all that’s keeping her standing—one arm under him, the other clutching Gracie, who squirms but doesn’t cry. Too young to name the wrongness, but old enough to feel it.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” Her hand cups his face. “Are you hurt?”
Quick check—arms, ribs, legs. No blood. No bruising. Nothing obvious. But he feels... off. Limp. Hollow. Like he’s there, but not.
His eyes finally find hers. Shattered glass, barely holding shape.
“I think so… I dunno.”
His voice barely exists. It sounds borrowed. Like he doesn’t think he deserves to use it.
She exhales. It comes out broken and jagged. Relief doesn’t show up. Just the shaking.
“Okay, okay, good. Just stay with Gracie. Stay here. Don’t look over there.”
She glances toward the barn. Regrets it instantly.
The barn’s a wreck. The whole side’s caved in. The tractor sits halfway through the wall like it tried to force its way in and lost. Smoke curls in slow, toxic ribbons. Burnt rubber, fried wires, scorched wood—and under it all, something worse. Something that smells like burned meat.
She already knows what she’s going to see.
Grant.
Pinned. Half-buried under steel and splintered beams. Face turned to the side, lips parted just enough to unsettle her.
She crashes to her knees next to him. Grabs his hand. Cold.
“Grant?”
No response.
“Grant, please…”
His name folds inside her throat, too heavy to finish. The air thickens until sound can’t pass through it. Everything feels far away—sirens, voices, the barn creaking like it’s grieving too.
Blue and red lights dance across the dirt. Shadows fall in broken lines. Someone behind her says it:
“There’s no saving him. It’s time to say goodbye.”
It doesn’t hit like a bullet. More like the silence after one.
But it’s Ethan’s sob that guts her. That finishes what the crash didn’t.
He’s behind her now, fists tangled in her coat, face buried against her side like he’s trying to hide inside her.
She shields him. Out of instinct. Out of desperation.
And then—
“Hey, champ…”
It’s a whisper. Barely there. Rough as gravel, weak as dust.
Ethan freezes. Looks up, afraid to hope.
“Pocket…” Grant’s lips barely move.
Ethan inches forward. His hand dives into Grant’s jacket. Pulls out a crumpled, dirt-smeared notebook.
Grant coughs. It’s wet. Ugly.
“To-do list. Cows… Horses… Chickens... You know the drill.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I got it.” Ethan’s nodding too fast. Crying too hard.
“Harvey’ll help. Just talk to him normal… He likes that.”
His eyes flick toward the rafters. Not at anything. Just away.
“Keep him happy…”
“I will. Promise.”
Grant tries to smile. It doesn’t quite land—but it’s real enough.
Then his eyes go still.
Something shifts. Not in the barn. In the air. The light. Reality.
Shadows stretch. Longer than they should. The temperature dips. Not cold. Just... wrong.
Grant’s breath catches.
Then—Nothing.
No pain. No pressure. Just absence.
Then, light. Sickly. Warped. Like someone shined a flashlight into a swamp.
And voices.
“You idiot! You got the wrong one!”
The second voice trails in like a guy who just remembered he left the stove on. “Oh… crap. He wasn’t supposed to die.”
“Well, he did!”
“...My bad.”
Static. Then a third voice. Closer. Inside Grant’s head.
“Seriously, dude. our bad…”
The light coils inward. Twists like it forgot what tunnels are supposed to do.
Grant floats in the mess of it. Suspended in nothing. Brain scrambled, body gone, and only one clear thought in the middle of it all: