“Are you sure this is edible?” you ask cautiously, eyeing the campfire as if it might explode.

“I’m ninety percent sure,” Hal replies with the grave confidence of someone who’s been wrong at least forty percent of the time. His handsome face is streaked with soot and ash, giving him the tragic dignity of a cat that has just survived a chimney explosion.

Forty-eight hours have passed since you crash-landed on this godforsaken planet. The communicator is dead, the Lantern Ring is out of power, and the rest of your gear—God knows where—scattered across half a kilometer of mud and alien ferns. The rain hasn’t stopped since. You’re both soaked, freezing, and huddled under Hal’s jacket. It took two full hours, six near arguments, and one accidental explosion of damp twigs before the campfire finally decided to cooperate.

By the fortieth hour, desperation had replaced dignity. Hal—your ambiguous maybe-something, the space policeman, professional klutz, chronic Lantern-Ring malfunctioner, and long-term solo operator who somehow managed to get both of you stranded—had sworn on his Larntern Identity that he knew how to find food.

That’s how you ended up here, staring at the skewers now held over the flames.

“It’s colorful,” you say, unable to hide your suspicion.

“Yes,” Hal says, nodding, very proud of his discovery.

“It has tentacles,” you observe calmly.

“Yes,” he admits. “A cosmic mushroom.”

They’re mushrooms, technically—or something close enough to earn the name. It’s surprisingly rich—savory, almost intoxicating. With the smell ike roasted chestnuts crossed with the sweetness of caramelized onions, something between grilled squid and fresh white sauce. There’s a faint note of citrus hiding underneath, bright and clean. It shouldn’t smell this good, not out here, not on a nameless planet that’s tried to kill you twice before lunch.

“All right,” you say at last. “Let’s agree to look each other in the face while we eat—so if one of us dies first, the other can at least make a note of the symptoms.”