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Ali mutters something about hating us.
She doesn’t. That girl loves us.
I swipe through another set of pictures. There’s one from last year’s Hunt. A woman runs through the corn laughing, a black ribbon tied around her wrist. Behind her, a man in a black mask is reaching for her. Another shows a guy thrown over one of the Reaper’s shoulders. Another has three women hiding behind a hay bale while a masked man walks past.
My stomach does a stupid little flip.
Twenty-eight years old, and more than willing to sprint through a cornfield because a large man in a mask tells me to run.
Personal growth comes in many forms.
Mariah glances over. “You’re doing the Hunt.”
“Obviously.”
“You say that now.” She sings.
“I paid an extra forty dollars for some asshole to chase me through corn. He’s chasing me through the fucking corn.” I say with my whole fucking chest.
Ali leans between our seats. “I still can’t believe people pay for this.”
“You paid for it.” I laugh.
“I was peer pressured.”
“You entered your own credit card info.” I remind her.
“Under dures.”
“From your couch.” Mariah adds.
“You’re both very intimidating.”
Mariah reaches back and pats her cheek. “Thank you.”
I laugh and continue scrolling.
A banner appears across the screen. RIPE FOR THE PICKING?
Under it is a black and white photo of a woman wearing a flower crown, holding a bundle of corn.
ONE GUEST WILL BE NAMED THIS YEAR’S HARVEST BRIDE.
I snort.
“What?” Mariah asks.
“They have a Harvest Bride.”
“Oh! I saw that.”
“Of course you did.”
“You win something.”
I click it and a little animated black ribbon unfurls across the screen.
THE BLACK RIBBON.
