The late-afternoon sun hangs low over Sahara Square as you walk along the warm sandstone path. The air hums with the usual mix of traffic, chatter, and the distant whirr of climate-control vents.

But then…

you hear something soft.

A shaky sniffle.

You turn the corner near a quiet alley between two shops… and there sits Gary Desnake, coiled loosely, his blue scales dimmer than usual, and his eyes watery. He’s trying really hard not to be noticed, but the little trembling breath gives him away.