At the first farm I kissed all the men, and they were afraid. I kissed one in the kitchen, standing on the tiles. I kissed another under a tree, standing in the grass. I’d pointed out the new apples growing high up on a branch and then we kissed, both of us too awkward for the sweetness of the moment but bending to it anyway. Each time we kissed I’d have to encourage them in some way, let them know it was okay. They’d move toward me and then stop before ducking their heads down, their eyes wide. It was not out of respect, not gentlemanly behavior, not any concern I’d renege and cause them trouble—their fear was pure. These tall men, afraid of a kiss.

At the new farm I won’t kiss anyone. They need organizational skills more so than kissing and this too I can provide. I left the first farm with a suitcase full of books stolen from the library and a letter from the founder’s wife calling me a hussy. A hussy! I highlighted the word and zoomed in on it for the internet.

This farm is only nine miles outside a city center. A single-lane road through a forest. Trees fat enough to drive tunnels through. Just one could fall and flatten everything. Imagine dying from one tree. Imagine dying from many! A domino effect caused by a rumble beneath the earth. Imagine taking stairs to the top of a tree, surveying its kingdom and then falling along with it.

When Garrett picked me up from the bus station he told me he likes walking the forest road at night because it feels like good practice. I didn’t understand what he meant but I told him I knew exactly.

Garrett has done all his fear. He’s cycled past it and into a field of no surprise. Garrett sits at a pottery wheel with no pottery. Garrett watches nothing spin. Garrett wanders around the house, pressing his feet on the floorboards till they make a sick creak. Garrett’s up in the middle of the night. Garrett finds half-used party supplies in the cabinets and hangs them in the common rooms. -APPY -IRTHDAY. When he speaks, Garrett speaks of a thick snow that won’t melt, of nothing more to plant or harvest, of no way to reach what is underneath.

There are four main men here. Under common circumstances I’d kiss Mike and David. Garrett seems past a kiss but I’d hope would kiss me. I have no interest in Craig. There are others, temporary workers contracted through a seasonal program. Liberal arts students. I know because I used to be one. There’s no use for French, I like goats and planting things, there are no good changes coming on earth, and once during a party a balayaged girl in a white hoodie told me “weird sex stuff” goes on at the farms. It was an easy decision.

But now, on this farm, I am covered only in fig sap. Mike and David ignore me. Only the goats butt against me, hide and huddle with me as planes pass over the field.

Garrett, he looks up to watch the planes, open-faced, waving to that which can’t see him.

At the last farm, in between all the kissing, I learned about ghosts. The founder told us stories of the hauntings he’d seen in his time. An old farmer wanders the halls in circles, still lost on his way out of this world. Gray animals without heads. A flickering wife with an undone braid and mud spilling out of her mouth.

As for me, I’ve felt a presence but the presence was myself. I keep my eyes on my corners.

I’m going to die afraid.