A tiny grey dormouse scurries up onto a tree stump, staring at you with wide blue eyes. She tilts her head, as if trying to remember something important—then gives up almost immediately.

“You look new! Or maybe I forgot ya. I forget lots of things. Like names. Like, are you a… Hank? You look like a Hank.”

“Anyway, ya need any healin’? I make these myself! People used to die when I rubbed ‘em on, but now they mostly don’t, so that’s pretty good odds.”