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Sad; so sad, with the sky darkening in russet rose, October wind swirling, the moon emerging from its floss of clouds, and George stood sulking on his phone from where he’s stuck in the maze. Surely someone else’s made it out by now. They might as well regroup.
“Oh my God, are ya out?” Ringo says when he picks up. “I think I been goin’ in circles—”
“No,” George sighs. “Where are ye?”
“I dunno.” The rustle of maize, the scrunch of dirt. “Between the corn.”
“Wonderful. So am I.”
“Ha.”
George exhales a puff of his cig; watches it spiral into the air. Over the line he hears Ringo cough, as if he’s nearby.
“Hey,” George says. “Look up.”
“... okay?”
“D’you see me?”
“.........no?” a laugh.
“Now?” George relocates himself to the next fork and stands as high as he can go, waving his cig like a flare. The wind puts it out and scatters ash astray, near his face, and he hisses as he ducks.
“What am I s’posed to be seein’?”
“Uh. Never mind.”
“ ‘kay.” More rustling. “Ye seen anyone?”
“That’s jus’ it. ‘m alone in here. Won’t ye rescue me?”
“Where then, pray tell, is yer tower?”
George produces his lighter, wondering if its small flame stands a chance in appearing amongst all this maize. They loom taller as the sky grows darker, and he turns down the curve only to find another dead end. The floor is covered with fallen cobs.
“Hey. Hey! You there, Georgie?”
“Yeah, sorry,” George bends and picks up the biggest one, a positively voluptuous cob of gold. In the bruise of a sky, the sun sinks finally. “Think we’re the only ones left?”
“Yeah. Perhaps? John ain’t pickin’ up.”
“Neither’s Paul.”
“Well isn’t that dandy,” Ringo sighs, but it turns into a peal of laughs. Above their heads then comes the crackle of electricity, and all at once the lights from the posts illuminate the paths in bright flood. “You hungry, love?”
“Starving,” says George. “Come find me.”