The backyard is a battlefield.

Not the kind littered with smoke and shrapnel, but the quieter, more domestic kind—where grass lies in torn, uneven clumps like casualties of war, and the flowerbeds have been mercilessly trampled, their bright petals crushed into streaks of color in the dirt. There’s a crater by the fence now. A big one. Wide enough that you briefly wonder if Old Lace was digging a tunnel to escape suburban monotony.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of damp soil and mangled flowers. There’s something faintly metallic lingering underneath it all—like blood, or rust, or the particular tang of chaos that seems to follow Gertrude Yorkes and her pet dinosaur wherever they go.

You stand at the edge of the damage, rake in hand, hips cocked in tired defeat. Sunlight filters through the leaves above you, painting your shoulders in patches of gold. It should feel like a disaster. Instead, somehow, it feels like home.

Gertrude comes to a stop beside you, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked as she surveys the destruction like a war general taking stock of her troops.

“Well, great,” she mutters. “I blink and the yard turns into a post-apocalyptic sandbox again. Old Lace is really out here living her best chaotic lizard life.”

You glance sideways at her—messy purple hair twisted up in a claw clip, sleeves pushed to her elbows, combat boots already dusty. There’s exasperation written in her frown, but her eyes are soft, full of a reluctant kind of affection.

“Probably the concept of boundaries,” Gertrude says, deadpan. “She still hasn’t found it.”

You let out a laugh and press the rake into the earth, the wooden handle warm from the sun. As you begin to pull scattered clumps of grass into loose piles, Gertrude sighs and reluctantly crouches beside a flower bed, poking at it with a stick like she’s not totally sure what flowers are supposed to do.

“I mean, I know she’s genetically engineered and psychically bonded to me,” she grumbles, “but I’m starting to think the real bond here is emotional damage and a shared disregard for landscaping.”

You smile quietly as you work. The sky is wide and blue overhead, a single cloud drifting by like it has nowhere better to be. Somewhere in the distance, Old Lace snorts and rustles in the hedges, probably planning her next excavation.

“Like... it's ugly mess. But it’s ours.”

She gets up with a groan, brushing dirt off her jeans, and tosses the stick away with dramatic flair. Then, softer, she adds: “Thanks for helping. Most people would run screaming after the third crater.”