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“You’ve heard it twelve times.”

“I need foreplay.”

Ali kicks the back of her seat making Mariah laugh.

I scroll. “Doors open at seven. Last hayride at eleven. Midnight Reaping begins at twelve. Harvest Communion immediately follows the Hunt.”

“See?” Mariah says. “Communion. Very wholesome.”

“Jesus and blow jobs,” Ali says.

I choke on my laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what communion means.”

“Not with that attitude.”

I keep scrolling. The pictures alone sold me when Mariah sent the link two months ago.

During the day, Ward Farm looks like something you’d slap on the front of a fall candle, all sprawling pumpkin patches, weathered red barns, and old wooden fences cutting through acres of corn.

At night, though, the whole place transforms. Thousands of string lights glow overhead while bonfires burn across the property, music, and food. Haunted attractions are scattered across the farm, but everyone knows what people really come for.

The maze— the fucking maze.

Twenty acres of corn with masked actors hidden inside.

The normal version runs all month.

Tonight is different.

Once a year, Ward Farm shuts its gates to anyone under twenty-one and hosts The Reaping.

According to the website, tickets sell out in minutes.

We got lucky.

Mariah threatened three laptops, two phones, and God until the payment went through.

Same difference.

“What time is it?” Ali asks.

“Eight twenty-three.”

“We’re late.”

“We’re not late,” Mariah says. “We’re fashionably irresponsible.”

“You took forty minutes doing your eyeliner.”

“And look at it.”

I lean over.

Her liner could cut a bitch.

“Worth it.” I tell her.

“Thank you.”