Tim had successfully persuaded and connived Kendall and Alex into fighting the transient his way. Or one of his ways. Tim had committed high crimes and broken half the commandments in his past, but as he became middle aged, and his testosterone dropped to a reasonable level, and the mild mannered ness that was intrinsic to him took over his more vicious traits and made them obsolete, he had developed a new way of fighting that involved apple pie. They stayed up in shifts, waiting for dawn, and when it finally arrived they left in their trio (Alex carrying the shotgun) to an apple orchard in view of the house, and picked the ripest and most unblemished bushel that Tim had ever seen.

There was a potbelly stove in his garage that had been stolen by the Hughes family from a log cabin owned by the Forest Service the year after the second world war. The chimney was rusted and the interior was permanently stained with soot from wood and coal, and Tim, although, until recently, hadn't believed in spirits or psychic energy, used it when cooking important or sentimental meals because he believed that the previously cooked meals and previously burned items added to the flavor. He used wood from the apple tree pruning season on this occasion, figuring it was appropriate given the contents of the pie.

He had Alex peel and Kendall slice. He made the dough from organic flour and hand pressed olive oil sourced from the far south east of the state. He used no spices save for a pinch of cinnamon. When the mercury thermometer on the side of the stove indicated it had reached 325 on a fahrenheit scale, Tim inserted the pie and waited. Then he inserted another. And another.

Evening came to the valley like a debt collector. Smoke from the chimney rose into the muddled sunset like a painting of the English countryside before industrialization. Five pies had been made. Three were set on the porch, and the other two were left on the table for the two farmers and the one drifter. In the fractured light the indistinct shapes of racoons and another scavenger could be seen in the trees.

Pinned to the most appetizing pie on the porch was a note, calligraphed in Tim's unruly scrawl. It stated " Hey-we're sorry for all the misunderstandings. We didn't mean to take your leg, or attack you in any way, and we hope this pie will make up for it. Thanks! Tim, Alex and Kendall", and underneath the signatures of all three participants was a doodle of a scruffy man enjoying a meal with a wisp of smoke rising from it.

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" Ain't no wisdom in givin' pie to a man that wrecks another man's car", Kendall grumbled. " He just gonna take it, and eat it, and figure that we wasn't involved, then he'll be back here again the next mornin' like a stray that's been fed, and he'll keep wreckin' our shit and blatherin' bout his leg". Alex's words were garbled from the pie in his mouth, but Tim was still able to discern

" We don't even know if he can read". Tim took a bite and determined it wasn't his best made pie. He swallowed and set the fork down.

" Well, if he can, then he'll know of our intentions. If he can't, then", Tim shrugged his shoulders, " he's missing an arm and a leg, and you have a shotgun. I'm not saying we'd harm him, but I figure we could at least drive him somewhere where he'd have a hard time hobbling back". Both Kendall and Alex pursed their lips, and protested internally, but stayed silent as they ate. Alex wondered if mercury had a discernible taste, and if there was enough in the thermometer on the potbelly stove to permanently damage an already damaged man.

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When the last streaks of the sun were taken over the horizon and the darkness transitioned from blue-grey to black a tribe of racoons climbed from the trees and shuffled, hopped, and climbed onto the porch, their noses guiding them to the pies. Tentatively at first, they reached their humanoid paws below the crust and brought the inner contents to their mouths. They tasted the cinnamon, and the freshness, and glanced furtively, convinced of their criminality. Then the eldest was stabbed, and the rest scattered, terrified of their eyes that failed to detect the doddering man.

The transient regarded the body. He had never been afraid of rodential or procyonidae diseases before and had no intention to start. He used his peg arm to lift the corpse up to his nose and sniffed it, then stuck his tongue out and licked the blood from the fur. It tasted mercurial.

In the foreground of his fading vision he saw the pies that the fellow scavengers had been feasting on. He had waited with them below the trees, watching his assumed terrorizers set them on the porch and pin a note to one. Since racoons couldn't read, he assumed the letter was for him.

The raccoon made a subdued plunk when it slid from the transient's peg. The doodle became illegible when the transient stabbed and stained it. He read the note. He sat on the porch and tasted the pie, and although it was tart, burned, unseasoned and otherwise unremarkable, it brought him to a life he had never lived, full of parents who loved him, a girlfriend or wife who would take the time to bake him sweets. A child who she would teach to bake. He looked at his peg arm. He looked at the dead raccoon. Who was he? Who had made him into the fractured being, the eternal sufferer, the deranged killer who could only feel happiness tangentially? Who was he who denied him sleep, who forced his crimes onto a projector to menace him, who sent spirits out to torment him? Who was he? Who was he who made him not human? The body of the raccoon curled from rigor mortis, and the transient ate pie and watched, and thought of the nutria heads on the pikes. Maybe they're not human as well. Or maybe they're all too human.