Margo kicks her leg once again over the gate and slushes her way through the muddy pathway that leads back to the cornfield. She's in no rush to face Mrs. Hederman, so she opts to amble on her way back to the barn.

It is particularly dark within the confinement of the corn stalks on this day. The lurking fog obscures her vision and the wind rips her hair so violently around her face she has difficulty seeing. Grasping at the loose strands of hair and shoving them into the safety of her hood, Margo suddenly has a terrible sinking feeling that she is not alone in the cover of these crops. She freezes, eyes scanning the stalks, unable to see far beyond the fog. Something suddenly feels very wrong.

But everything appears the same. Nothing unusual. Except, have the stalks ever stood so still?

She takes a step forward, more cautious of her footing now. Indeed, the wind has disappeared, but that doesn't excuse the sinking feeling in her stomach. She tries to shake it away without any luck.

A crunch beneath her foot. Something vivid orange gleams beneath the soft soil underfoot. Dropping to her knees, Margo digs out the vibrant, pearlescent feather. It's a shocking shade of orange with flecks of red that shoot through its wispy strands. It's nearly the length of her forearm, and toward its tip, the color shifts to turquoises and blues, contrasting its vivid body. Its touch leaves a light burning sensation on her skin when she slips it through her fingertips.

"Strange," she whispers as the burn lifts and is replaced with an icy tingling.

Mr. Hederman toots the horn on his tractor to remind Margo of the current time. She shoves the feather into her work jacket's pocket and rushes out of the rows of corn and across the field, giving him a nod of appreciation in return and feeling slightly guilty for not getting much work done. She is grateful he understands the importance of an education. His wife, on the other hand, would rather spit a string of obscenities at the mentioning of anything that pulls her from her job on the farm. But Margo is determined to become someone and refuses to be eternally attached to this town, like the cows in the back pasture.

The screen door slams behind her. She drops her boots at the door. Her mother still sits at the table and does not look up from her book as Margo runs past.

She tosses her work clothes on her bed and searches out a tee shirt and jeans. Atop her dresser in its usual resting place, sits the most precious article in her room. She grabs the silky chain by its gold clasps, gently locking them at the base of her neck. The warm tingling in her middle returns. Margo takes the tiny wishbone charm between her thumb and forefinger, smiling to herself.

"Crap," she mutters when she catches sight of her clock in her dresser mirror reading a backwards 'seven-eighteen.' She snatches her bag and dashes to the kitchen.

"Before you leave," her mom says firmly as she claps her book shut. "I think you should think about what I said earlier."

Margo grabs a bottle of water and a granola bar. "Fine, Mom. But I can't think before I leave." She makes her way to the front door, turning to add, "I'll think about it at school. Promise."

She hears the scoff just as the door slams shut behind her.

The wooden porch steps sag and creak with each bound. She slips through the picket fence and breaks out in a run. Not twenty feet across the field, she hears the screen door a second time.

"Wait! Margo, wait!"

She hopes her eye-rolling goes unnoticed as she turns back to meet her mom. "This is why I'm late every day."

"You know how much I love you." Her mother grips her face to kiss her cheek. "Let's just forget about our argument and move forward, okay?"

"Already forgotten," Margo mutters through tightly squeezed cheeks. "I've got to run. Literally."

Her mom chuckles. "You're just like me, you know? Stubborn." And Kylie is like Owen. It's what people have said for as long as Margo can remember. Of course, Kylie isn't as self-absorbed as he is. She carries his gene for passion in a more positive way. Their mother, on the other hand, is stubborn, unmoved by an argument. Margo is her daughter to a tee.

As far as looks are concerned, Kylie and Margo both inherited Owen's with a dapple of their mom's. Their heart-shaped faces favor his with their dominant cheekbones and widow's peaks. Kylie, however, has their mother's creamy skin and blond hair. Margo has her hazel-colored eyes that blend in with Owen's olive skin and light brown hair. What sets the sisters apart the most is their six-inch difference in height. Kylie towers over Margo's mere five-foot-one.

"If you decide to play hooky and skip out on work again this afternoon, you call me," she fusses, pulling Margo back into the present.

She nods, and as soon as her mother releases her, Margo takes off across the fields.

"Oh, and don't play hooky," she calls after her.

Margo simply waves without turning back.