"KENKU could be here," he thought. "I’ve never been outside the cornfield before. There could be KENKU anywhere." The cool wind felt good against his stitched-up chest. "I HATE KENKU," he thought. The eerie sound of wind whistling through a cracked flute someone left on a scarepole reverberated across the empty pasture, making an old wagon creak even as the fermented gourd juice sloshed in his straw-stuffed belly and washed away his (merited) fear of mimicry-loving black birdfolk after dusk. "With a cloak and a crowbar, you can go anywhere you want," he said to himself, out loud.