“Where did you get fresh strawberries?”
Gabe opened his mouth which immediately filled with dust. He had to admit, it was a valid question.
“A woman came by yesterday and sold them to me.”
Clay stopped engorging himself, berry juice streaming down his chin.
“A what?” Clay said, though it sounded like “Ah aat?”
“An old woman. Pretty old,” Gabe explained. He pushed a strawberry around his plate.
“A…a crone?” Clay knocked over his chair on the way to the mirror.
A woody stem erupted from Clay’s left eye. He screamed.
“You could say,” Gabe continued, “she was crone-shaped.”