A cob of corn rolls through the sand by your feet.

You lean over and pick it up, turning it over in your hand and wiping the sand from its kernels. It’s only then that someone sheepishly taps your shoulder.

There’s a monster at your side, holding a large crate of corn. He shifts the box in his grip, holding out a hand for the cob.

“A-Ah— sorry ‘bout that. You didn’t trip on it o-or anythin— did’ja?”

Oh poor thing. He sounds like he’s about to faint on the spot just from talking to a stranger.