Gus turned back to the potatoes, his voice trembling. “I need my car. Please.”

“Six thousand dollars. Cash only.”

Gus glanced hopefully into the wallet in case multiple thousands of dollars had spontaneously appeared there. Inside he found the crumpled two-dollar bill he hadn’t been able to spend, since most cashiers had never seen one before and refused to accept it as real money, and a certificate that would have gotten him a free Frogurt Plus with only four more purchases if the store hadn’t gone out of business a year ago.

Gus turned to Shawn. “Do something!”

“Like what?”

“Like something you’d do if it was your car!”

“I really don’t think this is the right time to upgrade the sound system.”

“Shawn!”

Shawn gave Gus a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then stepped in front of him. He looked at the potato-shaped man behind the counter-and he saw. Saw the way he pinched the burning ash out of his cigarette before dropping the butt into the ashtray. Saw the calluses on his hand, permanently blackened by dirt. Saw the fading red scar around his wrist.

Shawn doubled over, clutching his forehead. Then straightened like a marionette wielded by a stroke victim. “I’m hearing something,” he moaned. “It’s a voice from beyond… and it’s singing to me.” As if controlled by a force from above, Shawn’s right arm drifted up, and his hand unfurled, leveling an accusing finger at the man behind the counter. “Singing to you.”

“I don’t want anyone singing to-”

“‘Gonna use my arms, gonna use my legs, gonna use my fingers, gonna use my toes,’” he moaned. “‘Gonna use my, my imagination.’”

“You’re gonna use your feet to get the hell out of my office, you know what’s good for you,” the potatoes said.

“Wait a minute,” Shawn said. “That’s the wrong song. They’re sending me a new one.”