“So you killed him?” I asked one day as the Scarecrow and I sat on a tree stump.

It creaked its burlap sack head towards me, its eyes burning with sadness and regret, but also a fearsome intensity. Forgive, the crow cawed.

I nodded. Clayton’s body hung limply, a speck in the distance, rocking gently to the wind.

Death would come, I said, the crow croaked. Death at the hands of the Wooden Man. The name! The name! And it alighted on the blank gravestone and set to work, chipping away at the stone with its beak like a woodpecker.

C

I stood up, picking the lint out of my pockets.

L

“So what now?” I asked the Wooden Man.

A

It gestured to the barn, and I started to walk.

Y

“I don’t have anyone but you now.”

T

The Man laid its twig hand on my shoulder.

O

“The farm has nothing left for me…” It was left hanging almost like a question.

N

The crow cawed once, and resumed pecking. Left hanging like a question.