She should've known better -- she'd been warned often enough. A car was not a toy; you couldn't just get another one when it broke down. It required upkeep and maintenance, neither of which she did. Instead, she chose to believe it would always be the way it was, but now her symbol of liberation was unable to fulfill its promise of transportation. It was abandoned a full mile back and there was nothing for her to do but walk.

At the same time as her car had failed her, so had her phone. Still, its loss was secondary -- all it required was a charge. It was an easier fix than the car, that was for certain, but it was another failure she could blame on herself since it was her job to keep it going. But who really paid that much attention to their phone? It was as if it ran on air until it was plugged in overnight, unless she forgot. She'd forgotten it before, and been too busy to use one of the mobile charging stations on campus. Everything worked until it didn't, then it was always the fault of the device, never the user.

Stuck, as she was, in the middle of nowhere, she'd elected to get out and walk. Her thinking was this: she could be home faster than it would take for a tow truck to arrive. And it wasn't all bad news -- it was a nice night. There was a full moon out, and the weather was still warm, even that late into the year. Very soon, tractors and combines would be operational, but now the corn stood high on either side of the road. It was her only companion as she walked, an honor guard to accompany her. Or, if she was feeling morbid, a gantlet for her to survive.

The noise of her shoes as they crushed against the gravel was the soundtrack of her journey. It was better than the alternative, which was silence. The disadvantage was that it filled her ears so that she couldn't be certain when she heard something else. But there was nothing to hear, out there, alone, at night, not even the distant approach of another vehicle. Not many families lived out her way, and Sheryl Dauphin knew the terrain because she'd lived there her whole life. It was the familiarity that gave her the confidence to walk home by herself, safe in the certainty that nothing bad could ever happen to her somewhere she knew as well as she did.

Shadows rose and shadows fell. She measured her progress by identifying a landmark on the horizon, then gauged how long it took for it to arrive. There was nothing particularly unique on her path -- a bent stalk of corn, or a side road marked by a small sign that led to nowhere, invisible until passed. There was a scarecrow within her line of sight, and as she drew closer, she considered it. More tradition than function, it was back far enough from the road that it was obscured from the waist down. What was visible was overstuffed and bloated, as if it had already participated in the gathering of the harvest.

Her walk continued, a seemingly infinite journey down a line that appeared to go on forever. At one point, she looked back to assure herself she was actually making progress, but it all seemed as if she was on a treadmill and the corn remained constant. She tried to find the scarecrow, her most recent landmark, but couldn't. It had disappeared beyond the horizon, or into the darkness, or vanished into the familiarity of the terrain.

When she was a child, her parents had tried to scare her with the story of the Strawman, the nocturnal predator who kidnapped children who were naughty. Brush your teeth or the Strawman will get you. Be home before dark or the Strawman will find you. It was local legend based upon imagination and an incident that no one knew for certain, passed down from generation to generation until it had become as pliable as one needed it to be to get the job done.

Sheryl thought about the Strawman now. Although the light from the moon was as bright as that of a midnight sun, there was still darkness and the cover of corn from which a nocturnal predator could emerge. She was alone, unless the Strawman stalked her.

She glanced back over her shoulder again, looking for the scarecrow. She hadn't walked that far, so it should still be within range. But her height relative to that of the corn wasn't great, and everything appeared the same from a distance. Still, shouldn't a scarecrow stand out, given its difference from its surroundings? Was it really there in the first place, or had she imagined it? A trick of the shadows?

The heebie-jeebies having fully settled in, she turned around and looked forward again, ignoring what was behind her. Watching a clock didn't make time go faster, and looking backward didn't make the road ahead shorter. There was nothing to do but walk, wait, and be patient. Eventually the mailbox that told her she was home would appear, and then she'd turn left and be safe once more.

Sudden sounds unsettled her. She had stopped to measure her distance, and now she could hear what her footsteps had obscured; corn brushing up against corn, the weight of the bounty making it droop this way and that. Pushed by the wind, what little of it there was. The night was like a painting, a still life preserved with herself the only motion in it. The fields were an illusion generated by mirrors, extending forever in all directions. An entire planet of corn with herself the only person on it; a forest of food for her, apparently. A prisoner, or a ruler. Lord of all that she surveyed.

She could see her familiar gatepost when it was within running distance, but it was hard to tell, especially at night, how far away it was. She just knew that her march was soon over, and with that knowledge on her side, time collapsed and it didn't feel like she had been out there that long. Her mind was already onto the next thing, her trip resigned to her past. She would go inside, get some rest, call someone about retrieving her car in the morning, and remember to put her phone in its charger this time. The day -- and night -- had finally come to an end.

Her guard sufficiently relaxed, she didn't hear the corn part, nor the man approach. She was within sight of home, and safety, then the bag was over her head and all was dark. She fell to the ground, consciousness escaped her, and in one crucial instant, home was never further away than it was right then.

Her eyes were what he noticed first. Open and inviting, they were unafraid, the kind that welcomed strangers. It was the face of someone who liked to meet new people, who thought that bad things only happened to others. Young and bold, with all the promise held by youth. Her future ahead of her, opportunities seemingly endless.

It was weathered now, having been out in the elements for so long. Pinned next to it was a notice for auditions for a band, no experience necessary. Next to that was the schedule for a blood drive, and around and above were other notices to generate interest. Books for sale, rooms for rent, vehicles in search of new owners. No one had taken it down, but they posted over it when the days had stretched into months and all hope was gone.

Brian Morgan had removed an out-of-date poster for a concert only to discover the flyer beneath. The campus bulletin board was like an archeological dig in that one could travel backwards in time if one sifted through all the layers to get to the bottom. Every so often someone attacked it with vigor and removed those notices that were no longer current, but when that person found Sheryl Dauphin beneath the others, they left her in place. She still wasn't found, and they lacked the authority to call off the search.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME? the poster asked. The picture was in color, the extra expense not having posed an obstacle to whomever put it there. There was a thin layer of plastic on top of it to keep off the rain, with pin holes having been poked through in numerous places as evidence that it was obscured and revealed many times. The protection had not kept out the sun, however; the colors were faded, dating back to when no one dared to obscure it.

Beneath the photograph was the sum total of her life: age, height, weight, where she was last seen, when she went missing. There was more to a person than that, but knowing her favorite band or the shows she liked wouldn't help anyone find her. She was officially missing, not dead; her parents were distraught, her friends concerned. The entire community had been wrapped up in the story of her disappearance, then when she wasn't found, people moved on. Strangers at first, then friends, then family. There was a hierarchy that began on the outer rim, then collapsed inward. In their hearts, people still held onto hope, but the more practical-minded amongst them knew it was a story without a happy ending. Some said she ran away, but no one knew exactly where. There had been no indication that she was unhappy in any way, but unhappy people often covered their tracks well.

Brian remembered the search parties, a year ago now. Students joined with authorities in a grid that covered all of the surrounding areas, only to find nothing. There was no trace of her, or her car. That was why people suspected she had just driven off, but APBs on the license plate had turned up nothing. It was as if the earth had swallowed her whole and then erased her existence. Even her cell phone was untraceable, its GPS turned off and no signal found bouncing off any cell tower.

It was all explainable, if one didn't want to believe the worst. She was still out there, somewhere, hiding for a reason that people could only guess. Something at home, probably; abuse, maybe. But her closest friends had been questioned, and nothing had been found. No plans for leaving, and no hints as to where she might go if she left home for the first time. She was officially missing, and would remain that way until she turned up either dead or alive. For everyone else, life continued on, at least for the living. For the dead, it was forever frozen in place.

Brian caught himself being lost in thought, then replaced the concert poster with one of his own. It was a call to artistic arms; volunteers were needed to help out behind the scenes of his student film. Extras, engineers, and people to carry the really heavy stuff. He didn't disclose its title or theme, just the basic facts: the dates of filming, and the email address where interested parties could find him. Once they reached out, he'd let them know it was a no-budget, low quality horror film that didn't even count for student credit. Once they'd committed to the idea of the job, they were less likely to say no when they found out it was a slasher flick.

He felt guilty about covering up Sheryl Dauphin again, but she wasn't going to be found. At least, not intentionally; someone might stumble over her bones one day, years from now, when they were all adult versions of themselves, college a distant memory in their past lives, their everyday existences what they had accepted instead of what they had chosen. The dimly recalled face of the girl who didn't grow older like them, whose parents divorced because the loss of their daughter was a devastating blow which each blamed upon the other.

Brian covered her face like those before him and replaced the past with the present. He couldn't bring himself to tear it down, just as they hadn't -- it wasn't his job to decide. He buried her, like most people assumed her body was buried, then resumed his life. He was almost late for his own meeting, and that wouldn't exactly get his venture off on the right foot.