He stood out on the sagging porch of the crumbling mansion that had never been a home. It was the day before his flight out to Gotham, and Jonathan had never felt freer in his life. It was if he had been a dog on tight leash the entirety of his existence, barely allowed beyond the bounds of the yard, choking against the rope that was wrapped around his throat by his callous master.

But now he could be whatever he wanted, his slate washed clean. No one in Gotham would know who he was. No one would curl their lip in disgust, thinking, There goes Mary Keeny's kid. What a freak, just like his Granny. The word "scarecrow" would become nothing more than a childhood remnant. Certainly he would have to deal with irritating fellow freshman partying late into the night, but that hardly mattered at the moment.

He could leave this forsaken town and its ignorant inhabitants that seemed to see ghosts behind every tree, and couldn't stop talking about so-and-so's scandal from twenty years ago.

But with the fog rising off the fields, and golden strands of wheat waving in the air, it was easy to see why people might think the town was haunted.

Arlen was the kind of place that could exist anywhere, anytime. It trapped you in its morass, whispering sticky sweet nothings in your ear in that home grown Sothern drawl. It tried to convince you the nightmare was a dream come true, and while you were caught unawares, it would lay you to sleep like Rip Van Winkle himself.

Oh, how Jonathan couldn't wait to spite Arlen by leaving it. He had never believed its lies. He had always seen the desiccated place for what it always had been—a no man's land. But soon he would see that place disappear into a square of brown from an air plane window, never to visit again.

Jonathan raised his face to let the cool morning air claw at him. It was uncomfortable, but it reminded him that he was alive alive alive and that this time tomorrow morning, he would be tugging at his shirt against the muggy touch of a big city.