The complaint arrived in Ruth’s mailbox on a folded orange sheet. Your witch is facing the wrong way. She stood at the end of the path in her slippers, read it twice, and looked back at the enormous homemade witch on her porch. The witch faced the street. This seemed an important qualification for the job.

Ruth had spent three October afternoons building her. A broom handle, an old coat, a crooked hat, and enough stuffing to suggest the witch had excellent winter prospects. Her sister Bea had painted the face. Ruth had made the boots. Neither woman had expected a performance review.

“No signature,” Bea said when Ruth called. “Cowardly.” “Should I turn her?” “Absolutely not. Ask for specifics.” So Ruth pinned a reply to the gate: Please explain your preferred witch direction. By breakfast, a second orange note had appeared. Toward the upstairs window. Obviously.

Across the street, a small face disappeared behind a curtain. Ruth looked at the window, then at the witch, then at the note. The family had moved in during September. She had waved to them, but mostly seen boxes going through their door. Now there was apparently a Halloween specialist upstairs. Ruth wrote a new message: She needs convincing.

The convincing took the form of a carefully drawn map. It showed Ruth’s house, the opposite house, and a witch with an arrow pointing toward a bedroom window. Beneath it, in determined pencil, were the words: I can’t see her face from my desk. Ruth carried the drawing inside and propped it beside her tea. Bea arrived that afternoon with a screwdriver and the opinion that the original complaint had shown remarkable restraint.

They turned the witch slightly. Ruth held the coat while Bea adjusted the base, and they checked the path stayed clear. From the street, the witch now appeared to be watching the upstairs window with a distinctly personal interest. Ruth went to the gate. Better? The curtain moved. A hand gave her a thumbs-up.

That should have ended the correspondence. Instead, the next note asked whether the witch could wave. “We’ve created an expectations problem,” Bea said. Ruth looked at the old coat sleeve. “We’ve got string.” They attached a simple pull cord that Ruth could operate from her porch chair, keeping it tucked safely away from the path. At four o’clock, the curtain opened. Ruth pulled. One floppy sleeve rose in a magnificent, entirely unconvincing greeting.

The laugh carried across the street. A few minutes later, the new neighbor came over with her daughter and the latest orange sheet. “I’m sorry about the complaints,” she said. Ruth looked at the young inspector, who was holding a drawing of the witch with a gold star above her hat. “This appears to be a promotion.”

“She’s friendly now,” the girl explained. “Was she unfriendly before?” Bea asked. “I couldn’t tell. She was looking somewhere else.” Ruth glanced toward the upstairs desk. All those afternoons, a new bedroom, a new street, and a witch whose face had been turned away. She invited them to inspect the boots at close range.

By the time they left, the witch had acquired a name, a paper star, and two new admirers. Ruth and Bea sat on the porch while the sky turned violet. Across the street, the curtain opened once more. Ruth raised the witch’s sleeve. This time, the hand in the window waved first. Bea nudged her sister. “Excellent customer service.” Ruth smiled. “Terrible complaints department.”

Who could use a friendly wave from your side of the street? Keep Zombie Lips close for everyday conditioning when October weather leaves lips dry. Porch correspondence may require a second cup of tea.

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