Crawling out from under, she shoves the stove over a dirty inch, the little witch, wet-feet slopping linoleum like a cheapo plumber. Molds bread with her breath, breaks a dish to watch the shards teeth-chatter against the counter. Watch out, she’s let her hair down, grease and sway of swamp-root. Her dress, low-slung, hand-spun, with evil intentions–one look and you’ll catch your death. She won’t be quiet about it. Listen up for her wolf-whistle; baby, she’ll do more than keep your chickens.