We met at breakfast the following morning, and the Scarecrow was so excited he could hardly contain himself.

“Congratulate me,” he said. “For I am going to Oz to get my brains at last. When I return I shall be as other men are!”

Oh, sweetheart, I thought, looking into his painted-on, dead eyes. It’s not your brains that are the problem. “You’re fine how you are,” I insisted.

“It is kind of you to like a Scarecrow,” he replied. “But surely you will think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new brain is going to turn out.”

The Wizard was trying to pull his schtick where he made us each come visit him alone, but at this point I didn’t trust him enough for that. So when the soldier came to escort the Scarecrow to the throne room, I insisted that we all accompany him. Apparently my stock had risen around here since the most recent witch murder, because he didn’t try to stop us.

“Come in,” Oz said when the soldier rapped on his door.

We entered and found him sitting on his throne, feet dangling, seemingly engaged in deep thought.

“I have come for my brains,” the Scarecrow said, a little uneasily.

“Oh, yes. Sit down in that chair, please,” the Wizard said. “You must excuse me for removing your head, but I have to do it in order to put your new brains in their proper place.”

“That’s all right,” said the Scarecrow. “You are quite welcome to take my head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on again.”

So the Wizard untied the Scarecrow’s head and emptied out the straw. The scarecrow’s face continued to move and shift expressions on the folds of the empty head sack.

Aaaagh.

Then the Wizard went to his secret closet and came back with a big scoop of what looked like oat bran, mixed in with pins and needles. He dumped it into the Scarecrow’s head, and filled up the rest of the space with straw.

“Hereafter you will be a great man,” he said, “for I have given you a lot of bran-new brains.”

Groan. The Scarecrow, however, was straight-up delighted.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“I feel wise indeed,” he answered earnestly. “When I get used to my brains I shall know everything!”

“Why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?” the Woodsman asked.

“That is proof that he is sharp!” remarked the Lion.

“Well, I suppose I am next,” the Woodsman said. He stepped nervously up to the Wizard. “I have come for my heart.”

“Very well,” Oz said. “But I shall have to cut a hole in your breast, so I can put your heart in the right place. I hope it won’t hurt you.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

What? “Do it through his back!” I said. The Winkie tinsmiths had spent days carefully reconstructing his sleek, shiny torso, and I was pretty sure this guy was going to cut right in and make a mess of him.

“Either way,” the Woodsman said. “I shall not feel it at all.”

So Oz picked up a pair of shears and cut a small, square hole in the Tin Woodsman’s back. Then he went to a drawer and pulled out a stuffed, silk heart. It was actually sort of pretty.

“Isn’t it a beauty?” he asked.

“It is, indeed!” the Woodsman said. “But is it a kind heart?”

“Oh, very,” he insisted. He crammed the heart into the Woodsman’s torso, and I thought I heard a muffled sound when it fell, possibly into one of his legs or something. Then the Wizard replaced the square of tin and picked up some kind of gas-powered soldering rig, sealing the hole back up.

When he was done, it actually didn’t look too bad. “There,” he said. “Now you have a heart that any man might be proud of. I’m sorry I had to put a patch on your back, but it really couldn’t be helped.”

“Never mind the patch,” exclaimed the Woodsman. “I am very grateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness!”

Then the Tin Woodsman rejoined the group, holding back tears of joy. The Lion was up next, and approached the throne shaking. Extra cowardly.

“I have come for my courage,” he said in a small voice.

“Very well,” the Wizard said. “I will get it for you.”

He went back to his closet and took a square bottle off the top shelf, which, unlike most of the stuff in the throne room, was actually green. Then he poured it into an intricately carved, ornate dish, and placed it at the Lion’s feet. A potion to ease the Lion’s anxiety? For all I knew, it really might be Klonopin. Or, you know, alcohol.

“Drink,” the Wizard said.

The Lion sniffed at it, and made a face. “What is it?”

“Well,” the Wizard said, “if it were inside of you, it would be courage. You know, of course, that courage is always inside one. So that this really cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it. Therefore I advise you to drink it as soon as possible.”

So, definitely alcohol. The Wizard’s speech was all the Lion needed to hear, though. He lapped up every last drop.

“How do you feel now?” asked Oz.

“Full of courage!” the Lion replied. He joined the Woodsman and Scarecrow, and the three of them congratulated each other and hugged and patted one another on the back.

“But what of Dorothy?” the Scarecrow asked when they had settled down a bit. “How will you grant her wish?”

“Why don’t you guys leave us alone for a few minutes while we figure that part out,” I said. “Go show off your new organs and stuff to the castle guards. I won’t be too long.”

I turned to the Wizard once the door had closed. “That was actually very kind of you.”

“No amount of trickery can make a wise man out of a fool,” he said, “Although it’s easy enough to make the fool believe he is wise. You know far better than I whether or not the lot of them have had smarts, and kindness, and bravery inside them all along.”

“Trust me,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Now, let’s talk about how you’re going to get me back to sunny California.”

“I thought a great deal about your balloon suggestion,” he said. His old-timey speech patterns seemed to come and go—when we’d surprised him the day before he had mostly reverted to normal-person speech, but today he was talking all fancified again.

“The contraption I arrived in was destroyed long ago, but I think I may be able to construct a new one. It’s high time you were returned to your home, young lady.”

Hell yeah, it was.

“And high time for me, as well. For I shall be coming with you!”