Patent fear rolls down my spine. Like ice water. No, straight up ice. I can’t even swallow. Geese erupt across my flesh like an allergic reaction, hot spots abruptly forming beneath my skin. I can’t tell if it’s my body’s acute recollection of the previous crop’s parting gift or the anticipation of what’s to come with this new one.
The one I feared the most.
The image of the appropriately-named slapper crop sits in my direct line of view, displaying the crown from which it begets its cruel title.
My pulse beats so hard in my throat it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it. Frost doesn’t say anything, just looks down at me, his face still blank save his ever-icy eyes. Like he’s waiting for me to say something.