“Hey, it’s Apple Jack!” calls Farmer Ethshire. “Got any more of that cider?” Ethshire’s grinning, winking, but Appleseed’s face is grey and tight.

“Shawnee,” he shouts as he lopes in. “Shawnee and the British, get your family to Fort Stephenson, now!”

Ethshire’s eyes go wide, but he’s looking past Appleseed. Appleseed turns back to see a winter wind in August, tearing stalks of wheat from the ground and carrying them, frozen, sharp as glass. In flight, one becomes arrow. It drives through Ethshire’s heart.

Jack spits two appleseeds at the ground where he falls, and makes for the farmhouse, and hopes.