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After about ten minutes, she climbs into the seat, both hands on the steering wheel. She looks ridiculous up there; small frame, wild eyes, a grin that's too wide.

"I got this," she says.

Briggs and I exchange a look.

"You sure?" I ask.

"Positive."

She gives us a thumbs up, and starts chugging out of the barn.

We walk back to the shed, Gidge and the tractor slowly creeping behind us. She’s cackling—loud and unhinged. We come around the corner, and I turn back to look at her. She’s got one hand on the wheel, and the other holding a straw cowboy hat on her head.

I can't help but laugh.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Briggs asks.

She tips the hat at us. "Found it in that tool box over the wheel. It looked like it needed a new home."

When we get back to the barn, Acid is already hauling Peter out of the chair. He’s barely conscious, feet dragging, head lolling. Acid grunts, grabbing him by the collar and the back of his belt, half-carrying him out the shed door.

"Rope," Acid says, holding out a hand.

Tripp tosses him a coil of nylon rope. He ties it around Peter's chest, under his arms, and knots it tight. Then he loops the other end to the back of the tractor, securing it to a hitch pin.

"All set," Acid says, slapping the tractor's fender.

Gidge tips her hat again. "Hold on to your teeth, Peter."

She takes off across the field, slow at first, then picking up speed. Peter's body jerks, then slides, then starts bouncing across the dirt. He's being dragged like a sack of feed, arms flopping, legs catching on rocks and weeds. I can hear him grunt every time his face hits the ground.

We follow on foot: me, Acid, Gears, Arrow, Hunter. Briggs and Autumn peel off, heading back toward the house.

"I'm taking Autumn inside," he says. "She's had enough."

I nod. "Good."

The woods are thick, dense with pine and oak. There's a clearing about a hundred yards in, where the ground is soft and the trees grow close together. Gidge has already stopped the tractor, engine idling, smoke curling from the exhaust pipe.

Peter is on his knees, gasping, face covered in dirt and blood. He's coughing, spitting out gravel.

Gidge hops off the tractor, hat still on her head. She walks around to the front, grabs the chain from the winch, and tosses it to Acid.

"Wrap that around his ankles. I'll get his wrists."

Acid drags Peter to a thick pine tree, maybe two feet in diameter and secures the chain around the trunk, and then to Peter’s ankles. He's wearing boots, but the chain sits above them, cinched around his shins. Acid secures it with a carabiner and gives it a yank.

Then, Gidge wraps the chain around Peter's wrists, the metal biting into his skin. Peter whimpers, tries to pull away, but Gidge shoves him hard.

"Stay."

She climbs back on the tractor, and positions it so the winch cable runs straight. Then she starts the winch. The motor whines, the cable goes taut. There's a moment of slack, then the chain tightens around Peter's ankles.

He screams.

It's raw, torn out of his throat, like he's been holding it in for hours. He pulls against the chain, but he has no leverage.

"Please," he gasps. "Please, I'll leave. Never bother or talk to Autumn again."