I stare for a moment.

“Well, uh…”

Do you want it? it says, proffering the shirt again.

”...Sure.”

Okay. Glad I could help.

“Right. Um – so, uh – how long have you been doing the scarecrow gig?” I ask, wriggling into my shirt while trying to back away off the barn wall.

Oh, about thirty-five years. Back when this farm was another man’s, he put me up…but then he dabbled in the wrong things. Five words later, I was living and moving.

“Mm,” I say, trying to sound interested. It doesn’t have a left eye, so if I can just edge around…

Oh! Hey!

I straighten up. “Yeah?”

You haven’t heard about the time when a whole murder of crows came by – a murder! Then again, that’s not that uncommon . . . but it was pretty cool at the time . . .

As the supernatural stick-man rambled on, now deep in its story, I made a run for it across the barn, crisp hay crunching under my feet. The cat yowled.

I could hear the scarecrow sigh, even from outside.

They always go . . . . Hey, a kittie!