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 decides the scarecrow only has power while it stands. So they grab the gas can from the shed and a box of matches. "If you can't point, you can't choose," Wren whispers, and starts climbing the fence with the can sloshing in one hand.

Before Wren can light the match, the wind picks up and snuffs it out. Then the scarecrow's head turns with a slow creak. "Burn me and you take my place," it says. "Someone must point. Someone must count. Choose which one you'll be." Wren freezes, match held in the air.

Wren drops the match and the gas can in the dirt. "I won't burn you, and I won't count," Wren says. "The deal ends here." The scarecrow stares for a long moment, then sags on its pole, the fight gone out of it. The crows sing again. One by one, lights come on in the eleven empty houses. Nobody else gets pointed at, ever.