Charlie truly hated Oz. He had been there for about five years now, and he wished his little heist had been successful.

Now, Charlie was the Scarecrow. Had been for about three years now. No longer human, just patches and scraw. He wasn't even sure he had a brain anymore. That his name was even Charlie. It had been so long since anyone had called him that.

So, now Scarecrow just spent his days in cornfields, his arms draped over the wooden stand. The crows weren't scared of him, sometimes even landing on his arms even when he waved them away. He just gave up, staring down at the yellow brick road that ran through the field.