That evening in Felt Presence, a skeleton painted a portrait for the pumpkin’s upstairs.

“Hold still.”

“I’m very good at that.”

The skeleton painted his green stem, his six pockets, and a little white shine on his cheek.

“Could you leave that bit out?”

“The light?”

“The evidence.”

The skeleton rinsed its brush.

“Of what?”

“Excellent weather.”

It painted a tiny cloud over the shine instead.

When the portrait was dry, they propped it beside the curtain.

The pumpkin studied it for a long time.

“Could tomorrow be cloudy too?”

The skeleton left the white paint within reach.