My uncle Obert had only 3 fingers on his left hand. He lost the others during corn planting one spring. My fingers are buried out in these fields somewhere, he used to tell us & I check for them every summer to see if they’ve sprouted yet. I asked him once what he’d do if they ever did sprout. He thought for a minute. I’d run like hell, he said, & never look back & then he made us promise not to tell my aunt.