I just saw a child go into The Garden.

It’s not a real garden—it’s a street. After the biochemical bomb hit during the war, no one could live there, and the entire street was reclaimed by nature. I only know about this from stories because the war happened before I was born. I have no memory of The Garden from before it began growing. That makes it sound whimsical, but it isn’t. It’s hostile and alive and filled with a poisonous smog. The plants are merciless. It makes people mad.

I like passing The Garden at a safe distance while walking home from work; there’s something almost calming about its purple mushroom clouds and curling haze of dust, pollen, and smoke. Every building seems to pulse, seized in swathes of kaleidoscopic leafage. The metal barriers at either end do little to dissuade determined visitors and are completely ineffective against children.

Many rumors exist of horrendous things happening to those brave enough—or stupid enough, depending on your position—to enter. They get eaten alive, their eyes burst, their skeletons dissolve inside their skin. None of it can be confirmed, of course, since people who go into The Garden never return.

I thought the child couldn’t be older than five, but I didn’t get a good look, and they’re now nowhere to be seen. Filled with a need to do something, I drop my bag and jog toward the barriers, glancing up the side roads as I pass. Where are the parents? Why aren’t they out of their minds with worry? I’m technically an adult, but if my parents knew I got within touching distance of The Garden, I’d never again see the light of day.

When I reach the barriers, I pause. A floral odor hangs in the air, making my eyes water. Here, the smog thickens, like I’m standing at the edge of a heavy cloud. Oddly, it doesn’t move with the wind, instead, clinging to the foliage like it’s rooted to the ground. The Garden doesn’t make itself hospitable for visitors, and all the nearby homes have long since been left to rot.

Still no sign of the child’s parents.

Without further thought, I make a snap decision. Perhaps it’s the residual sense of teenage immortality in me, or maybe I’m too impulsive. More likely, it’s the enduring memory of Roddy hammering away at my conscience until I’m nauseous. I strip off my shirt, wrap it across my nose and mouth, and tie the sleeves behind my head as a makeshift mask. Then I squeeze myself between the barriers and head off into The Garden.

Immediately, there’s a sudden drop in temperature as if the plant life has sucked all the warmth from the air. I shudder in my undershirt and goosebumps break out on my arms. The ground is thick with vines and roots and fallen leaves. I can’t see them well, but they cushion my steps. After ten paces, I realize I’ve been swallowed by the haze and can no longer see the metal barriers behind me.

“Hey! Kid, where are you?”

Silence.

I don’t think my voice carries far in this space, and wandering blindly can’t possibly end well, but I have no idea which way to go. My eyes sting like I’m trying to see through saltwater and my shirt isn’t filtering out the smog. I can taste it, tangy and sweet at the back of my throat.

I enter a building and grab the wall to steady myself on the uneven floor. A puff of something billows out from the leaves beneath my hand, yellow and tingling on my skin. “Hello?” I say again.

No young response comes, but the plants around me writhe like worms. I jerk my hand from the wall and back away, but there’s no escaping the ones on the ground. The wall clingers stretch in a weak attempt to follow me.

I shouldn’t be here. Every atom in my body fights to make me leave.

But I can’t leave the child.

I stumble back outside and step on something that squelches under my foot. Instinctively, I lift my sole to check. The mess is a deep, vibrant red, but, thankfully, it’s too slimy to be blood. I bend to get a better look and see the gel oozing from a huge mushroom I’ve crushed.

Already, I’m dizzy. I cough through my shirt and it hurts inside my mouth.

A sound reaches me—childish laughter—though I can’t tell where it’s coming from. It sharpens the eerie quiet; there’s no birdsong here, no distant rumble of engines, no voices, no clangs of human life.

“Where are you?” I yell. “I only want to help.”

I stagger deeper into The Garden.

So, I couldn’t help Roddy—I didn’t even know he was gone until it was too late. Who leaves a little kid in the care of an eight-year-old, anyway? My parents always said they didn’t blame me, but they barely looked at me for a year afterwards. Officially, the search ended a long time ago, but they still look sometimes.

The laugh comes again and, maybe it’s just my imagination, but it sounds closer. I turn and head toward where I think it is. Stems wrap themselves around my ankles. I’m wading more than walking.

My foot catches and I trip, landing on my hands and knees. A thousand kinds of fungus grow between the gaps in the vines, giving me the sensation I’m falling into a vat of overripe grapes, juices bursting between my fingers and soaking my jeans. The sickly, overpowering stench turns my stomach. I’m stunned as a lonely vine begins to twist around my forearm. If I stay right here, will The Garden take me? Perhaps this is the power of The Garden—not the poisons, but the tendrils of malevolent influence wriggling their way into people’s minds. The people who come here lose themselves in more ways than one. My whole life, I’ve heard the stories of those lost to The Garden—teenagers acting on dares from their friends, unstable new mothers, suicidal businessmen. How many of them, overcome by the will of the sentient plants, presented themselves to the ground to be swallowed whole?

It’s almost too easy.

I catch myself, shocked by the swift turn my thoughts have taken, and slap myself hard in the face. The effect is dulled by my shirt-mask, but it does the job. I have the distinct sensation of waking up, abrupt and disorienting.

This is my second chance. The need to right my greatest wrong thrums in my bones. With each passing moment, my certainty that I’m somehow in exactly the right place increases. It was no accident that I saw the child coming in here. I rip away the creeping vines, haul myself back to my feet, and scrub away the stinging tears.

Suddenly, about ten feet away, stands the child, staring at me with big, brown eyes. Dark blonde curls sit atop his head, and his jacket is frayed at the edge of one sleeve where he chews it. There are paint stains on his pants and his feet are bare.

“Roddy,” I breathe.

He grins, still missing one of his top incisors. He looks exactly as he did the day he disappeared.

I take a single step and extend a hand toward him. I want to say, “Let me take you home,” but my mouth is frozen. He’s so young, and it’s a game, so he spins and dashes away from me. His laughter echoes through the smog. He’s light on his feet, dancing across the mushrooms like a ballerina. The plants part for him.

Maybe I’m not too late. He remembers me; I can see it in the way he moves. It’s the way we used to chase each other around the house. He darts around the corner of a decrepit building and ducks through a hole in the crumbling wall, laughing while he does it. The Garden urges me onward.

I pull the shirt away from my face and follow.