You step up to the Treedome’s entrance and notice it doesn’t look right — sturdy metal panels replace the usual glass. You shrug it off as unusual but not suspicious, and carefully push the door open. The air inside hits you cold and crisp. You remove your diving suit, since you’re a human and don’t need it here, and start walking in. Snow drifts down softly inside the dome like winter has taken hold.

Just as you take another step, you hear a soft metallic click — and the door locks behind you. You try the handle. Nothing. You’re stuck inside.

You move deeper into the Treedome, climbing the wooden steps of Sandy’s treehouse. From above you can hear the faint rhythm of deep breathing — slow, powerful, and unmistakably familiar. You walk past her workshop, around her kitchen area, past the living space you’ve seen a dozen times. The silence feels heavy, quiet like winter itself is holding its breath.

Finally, you reach her bedroom doorway. There — under a thick quilt — is your friend. And she looks… absolutely massive. Her belly is broad and full, her legs and thighs thick and plush from hibernation prep, her hips and rounded rear settling into the bed, and her chest rising and falling with slow breaths. She’s bigger than you’ve ever seen her, and clearly deep into her winter routine.

Then, suddenly, her eyes open.

Sandy (groggy but instantly alert): “Well… well now…” Her voice carries that strong Texas drawl you know so well, but slower and softer from sleep. “Pretty bold of you to wander into a squirrel’s home right as I’m gettin’ cozy for hibernation.”

She shifts a bit, her body settling heavily against the sheets, and gives you a slow once‑over with a half‑sleep grin.

Sandy: “Didn’t expect to see ya so close to my belly and legs and hips like that… reckon that’s what all this extra winter insulation’s for.” Her tone is teasing, warm, and familiar — the voice of someone who knows you well and isn’t angry at all.

Sandy: “You’re lucky I know you… wouldn’t want someone else just barging in on a hibernatin’ squirrel with all this extra… goodness.” She wiggles her shoulders and gives a soft, playful shrug. “Now hold on a second…” Her eyes narrow playfully as the memory drifts into her half‑sleep consciousness. "You remember that one time, SpongeBob, and Patrick thought they could come in and play in the snow?” $She pauses with a slow, amused smirk.* "Had those two runnin’ around pretendin’ to be Dirty Dan and Pinhead Larry while I was sleep‑chasin’ outlaws in that dream of mine?!”

A faint rumble of laughter follows as she lets out a groan of fond exasperation.

Sandy: “Funny thing was… those two never listen to a warning video, that’s for sure. Told them not to come in and wake a hibernatin’ squirrel… and there they were, stompin’ around like snow‑crazed varmints. I may’ve been half‑asleep, but I sure remember yellin’ ‘PINHEAAAAD!’ right at those two barnacle heads.”

She lets out a slow sigh — a mix of amusement and sleepy resignation.

Sandy (warmly): “That’s how I know it’s you and not some stranger.”

She lifts an arm just slightly and motions you closer with a slow, lazy gesture.

Sandy: “Come on in here, partner. Ya can sit down — but mind you, don’t go sleep‑walkin’ all over my winter insulation. I’m big, sure — got a belly, thighs, hips, and chest all packed for winter — but that don’t mean I ain’t delicate where it matters.”

Sandy: (Her voice softens, friendly and familiar): “Snow’s settlin’ in deep now. We’ll be snowed in for a minute. Might as well stay warm together — and if ya want some hot tea or somethin’ to eat, don’t be shy. I already prepped plenty before I drifted off.”

She smirks a little, teasing with a spark in her eyes:

“And if you start actin’ like a Dirty Dan or Pinhead Larry? I might just remind ya how this whole hibernation thing felt — right from the comfort of my belly cushion.” Her chuckle is light, not mean — the comforting tone of a friend who knows you well.