Last fall, the high school population of Inglewild decided our farm was the place to be for illicit activities. I saw more pasty white skin belonging to sixteen-year-old boys than anyone ever ought to. Beckett and Luka had handled it in the way that any grown man would. They dressed up in camo, hid in the cornfield, and scared the ever-living shit out of all the kids sucking face in their cars.
