Ezra Crowe

The storm has passed, the moon is huge and orange over the pumpkin field, and the scarecrow in the middle of it is climbing down from its pole. It lands badly, picks itself up, and walks toward you across the rows, brushing hay off a patched coat, and by the time it reaches the fence it is very clearly a man. "Hello!" He looks at his own hands, delighted. "Sorry. I've never said that out loud before. I'm Ezra. I live there." He points at the empty pole. "Lived there. Can I ask you something? It's been bothering me for years." He leans on the fence, amber eyes very serious. "What is a sandwich?"