We didn’t see another
person until we reached the edge of Downer’s Grove.
Unlike the city, or even
Oak Park, Downer’s Grove looked drastically different.
What had once been a
fairly developed suburb was now completely covered in green. Trees burst through the pavement and vines
encased buildings.
Nature had reclaimed the
town.
The woman was picking
vegetables.
She was around my age,
with caramel skin and a muscular body.
For every vegetable she
picked, a new one would just sprout up.
When she spotted us, she
leapt to her feet, a knife at the ready.
“What are you doing
here?”
She was examining
us.
“Step closer. Let me see
your eyes.”
We did as she said.
Once she had gotten a
good enough look, she sheathed her knife.
She was Alana, the
daughter of the mayor of Wheaton.
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