Strawberry Shroomy's Arc

Chapter 3 of 9

The beetle slumped between the rows, its shell glowing soft blue under the moon. The tonic had worked. Around it, bitten berries lay scattered, and a thin ring of trampled soil marked where its legs had finally folded. Shroomy climbed down from her post. She had hours, not a whole night. She ran for the wheelbarrow and pushed it into the strawberry rows. Her hands moved fast. Pluck, drop, pluck, drop. Red fruit piled up against the wooden sides, leaves catching the moonlight. She filled the cart, dumped it, came back. Sweat soaked her collar. The unpicked stretch shrank row by row. She rolled each full load to the old root cellar at the field's edge. Cool air breathed from its dark doorway. She stacked the berries inside on the stone shelves, safe from sun and jaws. Back and forth she went, wheel rattling, until the sky turned gray. When the first pink light touched the field, the beetle stirred. Shroomy stood at the cellar door, arms aching, last basket in her hands. The rows behind her were stripped clean. The harvest was saved. But something heavy shifted beneath her boots — the tunneling thing, still moving, closer now to the heart of the field.