It’s pushing midnight on Saturday night, and Sharon Everett-Mitchell is typing furiously on her laptop in the dim light of the kitchen. Aimee would say she’s going to ruin her eyes, and Sharon knows she’s probably right, but neither of them have managed to change out the dead bulbs overhead, and Sharon’s not about to give up the best writing seat in the whole damn farmhouse.

Even when she’s got a deadline looming, like tonight, looking out through the big bay window in the little breakfast nook and gazing out onto the moonlit crops in the surrounding fields gives her some piece of mind and helps her crank out that word count.

So it’s nothing special when she pauses typing for a moment, picks up her coffee mug, and takes a minute just to stare out the window.

Except—something’s off. The alfalfa fields are a bit too bright tonight. Aimee’s just finished mowing and baling, and things look a bit bare, except for the big round bales of hay that dot the fields here and there. And in the back quarter of the field, if she squints her eyes, Sharon can just make out something bright and orange among the bales of hay.

“Shit,” she says, spilling coffee down her front and grabbing her phone.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” asks the operator.

“Fire—it’s a fire,” Sharon says, trying to keep her voice calm. “There’s a fire out at Mitchell Farms. 50387 County Road 59. Across the street from Fellowship Baptist Church. Please hurry.”