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 climbs the fence and walks straight up the hill toward the scarecrow. Up close it is taller than it looked. Burlap face, stitched smile, button eyes that seem to follow. Wren stops one step away and says out loud, "Why us? Why our house?" The straw arm twitches, then slowly bends, like it is about to point somewhere new.

Instead of pointing, the arm grabs Wren's wrist. The grip is strong for a thing made of straw. "Stay," a dry whisper comes from the stitched mouth. "The others ran. Runners get pointed at. Counters get to choose." Wren stops struggling and listens.

The scarecrow lets go and points its arm out across the valley, but this time at no house at all, just the empty road. "Walk it," it whispers. "Bring back what you find and the count resets to zero." Wren steps onto the road, alone, with the silent field at their back.