Tuberlone, ever the fox, bore a tray with three cups of tea—hot, cold, and frozen solid—and when it entered Jum Burie's dark room it was mildly taken aback to see her lying on the floor, panting, her ten hearts racing, sweating all over, and her pitch-black eyes staring up at nothing.

“Seems you've danced your dance,” said Tuberlone, recovering its composure swiftly. It set the tea down on a nearby bulldozer and went over to her. “Not falling asleep, are we?”

“No,” said Jum Burie. She turned her head toward Tuberlone and said, “Of course not. Don't insult me.” She didn't get up to get some of the tea, but instead flopped one of her arms toward the fox and let her hand fall open. Then she said, “Bring me the phone.”

“Why?”

“What does one normally do with a phone?”

“Nothing at all,” said Tuberlone. “It's kept for emergencies—and I wasn't aware we were having one.”

Jum Burie said nothing, and her hand remained, awaiting phone-havingness, which Tuberlone did not seem eager to provide. She was as patient as she was impatient.

“Jum, how old are you?” said Tuberlone. Condescension was upon it, for of course it knew her age. Its tone was crawling closer to that of a disappointed dispatch operator scolding a new tire for selling its treads for Garbage Patch Kids trading cards. Jum Burie still said nothing, but stared at Tuberlone in a way that was somehow quieter than before. Tuberlone went on, since she wasn't picking up what it was putting down, and said, “Because it seems to me that you're rather on the young side to be experiencing memory loss.”

“I need no reminding of my mission,” said Jum Burie. “I wonder if—I have some questions.”

“The phone is not the place where answers are housed,” said Tuberlone. “Everything we wish to know is in that boy's brain. And you, Jum, can get it out. Only you.” It sighed at length and did not think about cross-stitching at all, and if you thought it did then you're as mistaken as a barn fire. “You know all this already. Why the attitude? Did you have a bad—what was it called? Dream?”

“No,” said Jum Burie, “I don't dream.”

“Wonderful! Then have some tea and let's get to work.”

Jum Burie sat up. She looked over to the tea tray and beckoned to it, but it didn't come, since tea trays were inanimate objects this time. She then looked to Tuberlone, and stared at it in a short silence, before it gave in to her petulance. Tuberlone rolled all its eyes and threw up all its hands. “It seems there's no placating you today,” it said. It then went over and got the tray and brought it to her.

By now, the hot tea had cooled, the cold tea had warmed, and the frozen tea had sublimated into a gaseous state, but even though it had reached the point of peak desirability, Jum Burie didn't touch it, but continued to watch Tuberlone, who continued to watch Jum Burie. They both had potent stares, but in that alone were they a match.

Meanwhile, outside, Traycup had been given a lot of crayons, but he couldn't eat them with the peel on and no one had given him a peeler, since they couldn't trust him with one. Someone as clever as Traycup could easily fashion a crayon-peeler into an interior decorator who'd go around criticizing everyone's wallpaper. No one these days knew how to put up wallpaper, so the slightest comment would undo us all, and then where would we be? In the same room, but now basking in the knowledge that what we thought was a pretty pattern in fact invote poor feng shui into our environs, released toxic harmonica vapors, and probably committed tax fraud in a past life. And then we'd have to tile over it.

The knights, the ninjas, and the pirates that were standing guard over him kept a keen eye on him constantly, and twice they had to take some jigsaw puzzles away, because apparently this little sneak could make an interior decorator out of damn near anything. Traycup just shrugged off these losses—he wasn't really married to the idea, and was just looking for something to pass the time.

“Pass the time?” said the ninjas. “Well, there's nothing better than a good ol' fashioned baseball game! Hup two, hup two!” They began baking beans, one by one, in the hopes that someone would figure out a way to invent dual-headed matches without resorting to linguine.

“There's three things better,” said the knights, “and the finest example of such would be the All Flexing Channel!” The knights turned on the TV and tuned into AFC, which was airing a brand new episode where everyone's grandmother came on stage and flexed all their muscles while Rome burned.

But the pirates weren't to be fooled, and they saw through Traycup's ruse. “He means to have our wits disarmed! You tremulous clods! Keep a handful of wisdom, won't you? Look, there! He holds a lock pick, so as to free himself from the trap!”

Traycup, who held a lock pick, said, “Fine buccaneers, rein in your blame a moment! This here 'pick isn't for the lock, but rather the formation of an interior decorator! Ah—I've gone and spilled it!”

“I knew it!” said the pirates.

Traycup was too dangerous to be left in the shade. The knights, the ninjas, and the pirates all went and grabbed his cage, and hurled it into a lake. So, the idea was to let him sink to the bottom and there be submerged, and stay out of their hair for the rest of his life, which could be measured in lung capacity. However, unbeknownst to anyone except the second quartile of graduating doctors in the class of Nineteen Eighty-Seven, the lake was in fact made of mercury. The metal. Traycup's cage floated on top of it with ease, and drifted away from his captors. They spread out and surrounded the lake, however, so that no matter where he tried to make landfall, they'd be there to keep the decor's status quo.

“That'll keep the problem solved permanently,” said the pirates.

Traycup took a straw and went and took a great big sip of the mercury.

“Is anyone harmed?” said Lorenzo, for the delivery to the inside of the giant's safe had been sudden, housing the potential for injury, and now it was too dark for him to verify by seeing, and so a query was necessary.

“Someone, somewhere,” said Student #417. “Pain, truly, is inevitable in life.”

“Is any of you three harmed?” said Lorenzo.

“I am,” said Roby, “not! And I give thanks a lot. But now our spot some distance has got from our goal from before of making a score against a foe or four and seeing friends restored!”

Ben Garment, however, being an anglerfish, was quite comfortable in the dark. But, for the assistance of his friends, he lit up his dangler to bring light to the innards of the safe. It was a giant's safe, so it was spacious for them, but filled with records, and the giant, Dubious Miraclasm, had such terrible taste. In the library was represented such infamous bands as Stuck Jacobsson, the Gillfingers, Machismo & the Red Stitches, and as previously noted, Tedsteve.

“The giant's got the taste of a flagpole,” Lorenzo noted dryly.

“Reminds me of the old purse,” said Ben Garment. “The dark, I mean. I find it a comfort, in a way.”

“Alas,” said Roby, “but Traycup is lacking, so we must go attacking this giant that keeps us until he releases... us.”

Now, Roby and Traycup only met a short while ago, and've had just a handful of adventures together, and yet Roby's friend list was woefully short, so she meant to keep the ones she seemed to have. Traycup would have to be reacquired. She didn't want to seem single-minded and unimpress the others, least of all her new friend in Lorenzo the bee—it was surely unhealthy to remain so obsessed. But—fitting in! Having friends! These are worthy goals—society said so! Why, even Ben Garment, who had been so upset at her for breaking her noble mansion, had nearly been cordial during their tenure at the school, which she now realized they had forgotten to name.

What's more, there was the matter of that package Traycup sent them to get. The shipping and receiving department had told them that it was a fabrication—but did Traycup know that? Had he been playing a little trick on them? Or was the trick played on him in the first place? What led him to believe that a package was en route, after all? Perhaps the package was truth, and it was the shipceiving department that'd told a fib. Who could ever really know the secret at the heart of it all? It was a captivating mystery that wanted for solving.

And also, if there was time later, they should probably track down Roby's mother, since that was just a whole thing.

“Friends are friends until the end,” said Roby, “and so it falls to us to extend a helping hand to see if we can rescue our pal from his festering cell!”

Lorenzo glanced at her and shrugged. “An exit from here must be found,” he said. “Perhaps we can find an embassy, and for the price of merely rescinding citizenship, we can apply for fugitive aid and be deported.”

“I'll apply the genius of education!” said Student #417. “Stand back as I think!” The others did stand back and she thought as hard as she could—or at least she thought she thought as hard as she could—until she came up with the best plan her mind was willing to concoct without a Bloody Mary. “We should split up,” she said. “We are safe in a safe! We'll each put out whatever feelers we like, or look with our eyes, or hire the Baker Street Irregulars—come what may!”

“It's not May,” said Ben Garment.

“I take your meaning,” said Lorenzo. “North, south, east, and west—we each strike out, and return when our expedition is spent!”

So they decided this was a good plan, or that it was a plan, and it was good to have a plan, and they each struck out in a different direction.

Ben Garment went north, because he had the most N's in his name, and ventured for three days, twelve years, a hundred and sixteen hours, and a month—not in that order, of course. Now, there in the north lay the Plains of Harndrone, vast meadows overgrown with deadly killterberry bushes, and beyond that was the Forest of Edcoplanmia, where the trees were tall and limbless, crowned with pink leaves that folded themselves up to catch the steaming and stinking rain. Ben Garment went to neither of those places, because they were big and far and adventurous and sounded like a lot of work. There at the end of an old road, where the plains were just about to begin, was a victuals stand run by Hankermeyer Auld Poxmanager.

“Hey, man,” said Hankermeyer, “oval day to ya. Pick up some victuals afore you go?”

Ben Garment gazed out across the plains, and listened to the distant roaring of the killterberries. “I'll be an eater, this time.”

“A boot heel, a recorder—” Hankermeyer played a few notes on it, “—a coloring book with a few pages still untouched—just take yer pick.”

“So! You've got it all,” said Ben Garment. “There's a secret here to a life well-lived. Now that—apply that to the menu and name your price!”

Hankermeyer laughed. “Nay, I've only got the one, and I need it for myself! If I had two, I might part with one, but the price is high—dragons slain and taxes paid. And for that one'd need—”

“Coplet's Shogi for Kids and Kids-at-Heart,” sighed Ben Garment. Hankermeyer shrugged—he wasn't going to budge on the price, and Ben Garment knew it. He'd heard this story before.

Now, across the road from the victuals stand there was a bench, crowded with finches and made of the world's first casino. Ben Garment was going to have nothing to do with the adventuresome journey ahead of him. Instead he sat down beside the finches and made himself five times as comfortable as a sauna-goer on break. The finches looked at him curiously, furiously, and with a little dollop of pity.

“Eh,” they said, “bus takes exact change only.”

“That's not much of a concern,” said Ben Garment. “I don't aim to ride on the bus.”

“'s good,” said the finches, “but that don't change the fact—bus takes exact change only.”

The finches circled Ben Garment, and became steelish, and Ben Garment was forced to flee into a sleeping badger's nostril. The finches came after him, but they couldn't get into the badger's nostril until they were level ten, and even with all of them combined, they were only fifty-three percent finished downloading the installation files. Ben Garment slipped the badger an easel, so as to awaken it, and then slipped it a second easel, just for fun. Without a word, the badger slunk away from the finches, carrying Ben Garment with it. It went all the way back to where Ben Garment had set out from, where he had parted from the others so long ago. And so ended Ben Garment's expedition. He did not find a way out of the safe—that seems clear, I shouldn't have to spell that out.

Student #417 went south, because she had the most S's in her name. In the south was a moving truck that wasn't moving at all—someone was idling it in front of the apartment building, and it was blocking half the road. Student #417 pulled up behind it and wasn't sure if she could pass it or not. She waited for a minute, but it started to get really awkward. What if someone pulled up behind her? What if a cop showed up? She couldn't see past the truck—what if someone over there was waiting? What if it was all clear—then she'd be the idiot to sit there waiting. But—no! No idiot she, for she had gone to school—or rather, she had Gone To School, which by definition cured her of her stupidity. Therefore, hers could not be but the right course of action! So all was well, and she was, as she assumed, a genius.

But education begets curiosity, and so she meant to investigate the situation. An unmoving moving truck was a subject that warranted research. Perhaps she'd be published in the trades. So Student #417 got out of her car, and it was immediately rehired by an internet security company and moved out-of-state to be more local to the main office. Her textbooks were still in the trunk, and she had a hundred and forty-two payments remaining on them—a small price to pay, however, to satisfy the query before her.

Another car pulled up behind her, and Giff Stumble hopped out, threw down a hula hoop in disgust, and sneezed right on the carbonara.

“This is an ill omen,” said Student #417.

“I ain't no omen,” said Giff, “so you're half right. The name's Giff Stumble. Pleased to meet you,” he said, bowing.

“Jockey Bradish. But this is no time for pleasantries—the omen!”

“Omen? Oh, man!” sighed Giff. “I s'pose I can't blame you. I get it a lot. Look—” he gestured to his various body parts. “I get it from my mom. Just goes to show, huh?”

“Oh, I've never gone to a show,” said Jockey.

Giff looked one way, then the other. He stared at Jockey with a haunting look, and motioned for her to lean in close, to hear a secret. She did, and he said, “Keep it that way.” With that, he patted her on a shoulder, and walked away, whistling. Jockey stayed in that shocked pose until Giff had gone around a corner, his whistling barely hearable over the truck's rumbling engine, only notes of certain high pitches here and there carrying above the noise.

At last Jockey rose up and grit her teeth. For the first time, she felt the pleasure of determination. She said to herself, “I will go to a show,” and then did.

Lorenzo had gone west, because his name had the most W's in it. The stalwart bee wrapped himself in heavy cloaks to shield him from the blazing desert heat and the slicing winds. A camel carried his camping gear and other belongings and a macaque carried a tune—somewhere else, though, not part of Lorenzo's party of one. The macaque worked at a bar and sang every night. It didn't even practice anymore. There was just no need. It was always singing, sad songs, old songs, and the people would come and drink and no one said anything, but when they left they were made of clear glass and moved without a sound. Lorenzo was destined to never meet this macaque, which is a pity, because hearing it sing would make so many things finally make sense.

There's no quotation marks in this part, because Lorenzo went alone, and didn't run into anyone, and nearly not into anything. The desert was a great, empty expanse. He had maps and a compass and a great store of food and water, and began a methodical investigation, plotting his course carefully, using his tools with the ease of experience, his years informing his movements, as if he'd done all this before, time and time again. He had, but not here.

He mapped every edge of the desert, from the sandfalls in the far north to the endless canyons in the south, to the great glimmering dunes in the west, unassailable, towering to the heavens yet always tumbling and shifting, and back to the eastern edge, the point which he set out from—sorry, the point from which he set out. Lorenzo returned first, in fact—his efficiency, of course, made the trek a simple task for him. He pondered his results while he waited for the others.

Ben Garment returned after a while, and reported hopelessly impassable terrain and a virtually sold-out victuals vendor, much to Lorenzo's dismay. Later, Jockey returned, and announced that the show had been a life-changing experience—they played three encores, she got to meet the band, and she was going out again tomorrow after work.

“Well,” said Lorenzo, “looks like we've all come up with nothing much.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Jockey.

“I think I've done the very same,” said Lorenzo.

“Hang it up a sec,” said Ben Garment. “We've not all checked in, and one route's contents remain unrevealed. Wherever could Roby be?”