Should you trust a green-skinned hag in a marsh? Certainly not. But you are not going to meet her standing up. That is not how she works.
Look at the water. Go on. That soft green blanket lying flat and pretty across the whole pond, dense enough you could set a cup down on it, near enough a lawn.
It is not a lawn. It is a skin of weed a quarter inch thick over eight feet of cold black nothing, and she is lying directly beneath it with her hair spread out like more of the same, and she has been there since noon, and she is extremely patient.
Every mother in that county told her children so. Every mother in that county was lying, obviously.
Obviously.
