The fear that had previously pumped my heart with it’s cold grip now lessens into a sturdy palm of protection.

I feel safe.

It moves like a bird of prey—robotic, with ticks that gnarl its freaky claws, and a line of sight that swivels atop its neck with laser precision.

The mid day sun sets like the hours were minutes. A deep and dusky orange-purple spectacle spreads like wildfire accross the horizon.

In all of three minutes we arrive at a dilapidated house hidden behind a hill not far from the barn.

Night falls at once, dressing my frightful leader with the glint of a full silver moon. It pauses and turns its wide nocturnal eyes on me. A blade-like talon reaches out and points me toward the neglected shanty house.

I lumber down the slope and actually feel the separation between myself and the scarecrow grow lengthy like the unmowed ground I walk on—like the void of a blackhole swirling me into its unknown dimension.