As the ground shakes and the fox tilts its head to one side, Gretchen does the same. Passing either side of them with as much force as the storm, the animals surge through the grass like the swishing blade of a scythe, a scythe brandished by a skeleton wearing a black cloak. The Grim Reaper? She thinks that’s what he’s called. He’s the chap carried to Earth on a pale horse so he can bring about its destruction when Jesus is ready to cast judgment on all those who need judging because we’re all sinners who keep sinning. At least that’s what she remembers from her mother’s ramblings. Whenever her mother speaks of such things, she zones out, but some of it sticks in her brain all the same. From the mighty horses whose galloping feet could crush her head like an egg to the tiny field mice charging as light as air, their hooves and paws crash upon the ground like thunder tearing chunks out of the muddy earth that fly upwards like the debris from falling bombs. The chunks lifted by the tiny feet of the mice are no size at all, while those created by the horses are as big as coffins. It’s a wild din. It’s a wild night. Gretchen, wishing to speak to her spirit kind, raises her hand before her face. Mirroring her actions, the fox does the same with its paw, and as the flesh and fur of their palms collide, in the distance, bolts of lightning illuminate the sky as if it were a bright sunny day. Watching open-mouthed, Gretchen sees the trees, and then above them, the tip of a Ferris wheel rising to meet the heavens.