In the middle of the field there is a patch of thistles.
The field is soft, the thistles sharp and jagged; from a distance they look like a rug, up close they look mean.
Last year a deer came and lay down here and passed away, or a hunter shot it and left it here to rot.
A woman stands looking at the patch of thistles, hoping for the former but fearing the latter.
The omens are not good.
She too has been thrown away; yesterday evening she signed the final papers, shook hands with her former boss and turned her back on the concrete stairwell that she knows too well but will never need to climb again.
That bit is good.
But right now she is considering laying down in the field of thistles.
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