Night drifted across the world, coolly pursued by a new day.
There was a stirring in the henhouse across the yard.
“Cock-a-doo…er.”
Bill Door stared at the roof of the barn.
“Cock-a-doodle…er.”
Gray light was filtering in between the cracks.
Yet only moments ago there had been the red light of sunset!
Six hours had vanished.
Bill hauled out the timer. Yes. The level was definitely down. While he had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his…of his life. He’d completely missed it, too—
“Cock…cock-a…er…”
He climbed down from the loft and stepped out into the thin mist of dawn.
The elderly chickens watched him cautiously as he peered into their house. An ancient and rather embarrassed-looking cockerel glared at him and shrugged.
There was a clanging noise from the direction of the house. An old iron barrel hoop was hanging by the door, and Miss Flitworth was hitting it vigorously with a ladle.
He stalked over to investigate.
WHAT FOR ARE YOU MAKING THE NOISE, MISS FLITWORTH?
She spun around, ladle half-raised.
“Good grief, you must walk like a cat!” she said.
I MUST?
“I meant I didn’t hear you.” She stood back and looked him up and down.
“There’s still something about you I can’t put my finger on, Bill Door,” she said. “Wish I knew what it was.”
The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say.
“What do you want for breakfast?” said the old woman. “Not that it’ll make any difference, ’cos it’s porridge.”
Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why can’t I remember?
And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely.
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT, MISS FLITWORTH?
“It’s sharp enough, for goodness sake.”
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE?
“You can’t. Sharp’s sharp. You can’t get sharper than that.”
He’d swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise.
And there was the grass, too.