This weeks’ escapade, de-materializes as she comes around the big bend that leads to the farms.  It gives her post traumatic symptoms.

“Viv!  Viv!  What’s a panic attack feel like?”  Carol breathes in shallow, sobbing gasps.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Get that Mickey out of my glove compartment…”
Carol sits lopsided, on her bunched up, autumn, shawl.  Vivian has no trouble with this vodka idea, its cocktail hour. 
“It’s a good thing cops are scarce way out here…“  Vivian warns carefully.
“Shut up…I’ve got a headache right now...”
Vivian pours two fingers for each of them, into thermos lids.  She scrunches up her old denim coat and sits lopsided too, on the field.
“This year Vivie, we plant corn. We want tall, tall, sheaves of it all around to hide what we’re doing.”

“Just what are we doing Carol?”   Vivian collapses the wiener pot tripod with a bang and glares at her.  “What have we got?  Two forty year olds, one of whom see spooks in the middle of a country field, and the other, who wants to kill her for telling her about it.”