You stare at the door to Sticks’ hut.

This is a mistake. This is going to end badly. But your legs keep moving.

You knock once.

The door slams open like it was launched by a trebuchet. Sticks lunges out, wielding a net, eyes wide with the fury of someone who hasn’t slept in a decade.

“IT’S YOU! THEY SENT YOU TO INFILTRATE, DIDN’T THEY?”

“…I had a nightmare?”

She squints, lowering the net slightly. “About what?”

“Too many teeth. Not enough eyes.”

Her gaze narrows. “The mole people. I knew they were back. GET IN.”

You are aggressively yanked inside. Within thirty seconds, she’s built a barricade, stacked all her spoons facing east, and handed you a helmet made out of coconut halves.

“What is this for?”

“Deflects brainwave manipulation. Also stylish.”

“Sticks, I just wanted someone to tell me I was being irrational.”

“Oh, you are. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”

You spend the next two hours helping her paint “anti-hypnosis runes” on the windows with beet juice. You don’t sleep. But by the end of the night, you’re too tired—and weirdly comforted—to care.