Pru yelled as she clambered across the wintered gardens. “Hey! You there! I see you!” The figure disappeared. “Might as well show yourself! Get back here!” But the man had vanished. Like a ghost. Pru stopped at the goose pond, its surface just starting to crackle and freeze. Where did he go? Behind a tree? Inside the barn? How did he even get onto the property in the first place? The boy hooligans had been trying for years, to no success. “Hello?” Pru called out meekly. She glanced down at her feet and the shabby, crummy slippers that covered them. Above the shoes, her legs were bare and speckled with fleabites. Farther up was the ratty gray nightgown last laundered on some other continent. Pru looked out across the orchard to the old house. The place was making her mad. She turned to go. Then: another rustle. Louder. Heavy-footed. “I know you’re there!” she called. Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all. Or not in that particular way. “We have guns!” Pru scrambled toward the noise, tripping over branches and stones.
