The villagers were building a wicker man on the hill west of town. Mirriam always enjoyed the hike up to the crest with Puck. It was an eerie, windswept place with a huge rock ring. Not standing stones. Dozens upon dozens of fist-sized rocks piled in a ring big enough to hold a small car. Puck did laps around the outside, barking like a lunatic, full of energy and fresh air in her scraggly white fur. Neither mutt nor mistress dared to step inside the rough circle.

What was only an afternoon's curiosity snapped into sharper focus when the villagers started carrying tight bundled straw and bits of old lumber up the hill. They weren't in any particular hurry with their construction, but Mirriam had seen enough horror movies on Netflix to know that they were working to be done by Lammas.

She put the fanciful thoughts of devils and sacrifices out of mind and put her nose to the electronic grindstone. She had numbers to crunch and reports to file. The monthly reports wouldn't sort themselves. She had a video conference at half-past three. God knew why the vice president wanted the accountant there. Westfarthing had fiber-optic, which meant that she could telecommute. The fiber-optic was good, which meant that she still had to show up for pointless meetings.

July 21st brought her landlady, Mrs. Allen, tap-tapping upon the door. Her ginger-tinted hair was swept up in a green bandanna paired with denim overalls and a neon-green tube top. Well, older ladies could be body positive too, Mirriam thought as she let Mrs. Allen in. Hauling straw and whatnot up the hill was hot work.

"I've brought you your receipt." Mrs. Allen handed her a blank piece of paper.

The paper didn't feel papery in Mirriam's hand. Upon closer examination, it was a piece of old-fashioned parchment. Neither side had any writing. Mrs. Allen was already turning away when Mirriam caught her arm.

"Receipt?" Mirriam inquired as she tried to surreptitiously wipe Mrs. Allen's sunblock and sweat onto the leg of her capri pants.

"For Lammas." Mrs. Allen nodded as though that explained everything and took off again. She shut the garden gate with a cheery 'toodaloo' and headed back to the fields, no doubt for another bundle of straw.

The online work chat made an imperative ding, so Mirriam put the "receipt" in her pocket and went back to work.