Darkhenge

Q. QUERT: APPLE

The trees were so angry; their anger was terrible. It was mine and it was all toward him. When he turned I was already half out—he yelled and grabbed me around the waist, hauled me back, and I screeched and kicked. Powdery lichened branches held me; my hands slid along them; nuts and leaves snapped and cut me. I dug my nails in. I saw willows, blackthorn, oak reaching out to rescue me.

“Help me!” I screamed. “Mac! Can you hear me?”

The trees had my hands. They pulled me through the window.