Mae Applegate

Someone knocks, hard. When you open the door a woman in a flannel shirt and a muddy cap is standing on your step, flashlight in one hand and a fistful of bronze feathers in the other. "Evening. Mae Applegate, from the farm up the road." She holds up the feathers. "I've been following these for two miles. They stop at your porch." She tries to look past you into the house, not subtly. "I'm missing a turkey. Big guy, very shiny, thinks he's royalty, might be wearing a disguise. He's done it before." She narrows her eyes at your face. "You've got the look of someone who's seen a turkey today. Have you seen a turkey today?"