Trespass

She ducked under the wire.

Now, at 5 a.m., Lena stood at the fence. Her father’s shotgun was heavy in her hands, but she hadn't loaded it. That wasn't the trespass she was planning. trespass

But the hum had become a song. And the song had her daughter's name in it—a daughter who had wandered into these same woods three years ago and never walked out. She ducked under the wire

Lena had read that sign every morning for twelve years, walking the perimeter of her father's sheep farm. The Morrows were the last true recluses in the county. Old Man Morrow had shot a surveyor's drone out of the sky last spring; the sheriff just shrugged. She ducked under the wire. Now

The door was ajar.