Every harvest, the scarecrow in the high field turns on its pole. It points one straw arm at a house, and before the snow that family packs up and leaves. They never write back. This year Wren counted the empty homes: eleven gone. Last week the scarecrow turned. Its arm now points straight at Wren's own front door. That makes them the twelfth. This morning the crows stopped singing all at once, and the field went dead quiet. Wren stands at the fence, heart pounding, and decides not to wait for the snow.

Wren doesn't go to the field. Instead they run to old Mr. Pell, the last neighbor still living nearby, and bang on his door. "You've watched this happen eleven times," Wren says. "Tell me where they all went." Mr. Pell goes pale. He pulls Wren inside and locks the door behind them.

Mr. Pell sits Wren down. "They didn't leave town," he says quietly. "The scarecrow keeps the field alive through winter. It needs one family a year to do it. Pointing is its way of picking. I've kept quiet eleven times because it never pointed at me." He looks at the floor, ashamed.

Wren asks the only question that matters: "How do I stop it?" Mr. Pell finally meets their eyes. "Same way it started. Someone has to climb the pole and take its place willingly. The one who does sets all the others free." Wren swallows hard and looks out the window at the field.