>[1] Yes, you did notice something weird about him. Beyond the normal. [Write-in: what?]

  >[2] No, you didn't notice anything. (Not that you were paying much attention.)

  >[3] You're not answering anything without context. What is there to be concerned about? And why *him*?

  >[4] This is not worth your time. Get back to your project.

  >[5] Write-in.

  "Yes," you say heatedly. "He was all ready and raring to go up until the last second, and then he was all 'oh, I don't like this,' 'oh, I don't even remember why I wanted to be here in the first place'—"

  "So what, he got cold feet?" Madrigal sighs. "I mean, that's normal. I'm shocked he agreed in the first place, even. That's why—"

  You open your mouth to interject, then close it. How are you supposed to explain that you in fact coerced the agreement from him while he was in a… a “vulnerable state”, and therefore it was supposed to stick? Cold feet were not possible.

  "—so look, I was kind of wondering if—"

  "What?" you say.

  "I was wondering if…"

  "No." You wave your hand airily. "All of it."

  She slumps lower on the signpost. "Okay, firstly, fuck you. Secondly, he hasn't been talking."

  "Feeling spurned?"

  "To anybody. I mean, not substantially. He's not mute. But he's been out more and more, he didn't come to Game Night last month…"

  Game Night. The words send cold prickles down your back. You have never been invited to Game Night. (Not that you want to be!) Ellery's invited to Game Night. (Not that that matters!)

  "I mean, it's just… I'm worried. Monty's worried… we're all worried. And then he leaves with you, of all people."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You, of all people. So, look, I was wondering— since I guess he'll talk to you, is there any way you can figure out what's up? Ask him, or do some poking around, or whatever. I don't really care how you find out."

  You contemplate this. On one hand, this is about as personal as business gets. On the other…

  "Why should I?" you say.

  Madrigal looks unsurprised. "I'm guessing the goodness of your heart won't cut it. What, what do you want?"

  ?She's desperate. Can you see it??

  (Pick as many as you feel prepared to negotiate for.)

  >[1] An invitation to Game Night. For… for research purposes.

  >[2] A sword. You know about her weapon stockpile. You won't abide questions. You just want a sword. (The shinier the better.)

  >[3] Some kind of authority position. You're not going to be pushed around by these people.

  >[4] A written promise never to barge into your tent again.

  >[5] Money.

  >[6] Write-in.

  "I want," you say, "an invitation to Game Night."

  ?No. No. You idiot. Have you never heard of bargaining.?

  Madrigal guffaws. "Ha, what? You've always been invited."

  "No I haven't! I was banned." You jab fiercely at her chest. "Completely unjustly, I may add—"

  "…That's not what happened," she says, and pushes your finger away. "Like, that's not even in the vicinity of what happened. You were invited. And when you were told about it, you said 'fuck off, I don't have time for you'— I'm paraphrasing. So we assumed you weren't interested. But if you are, sure, the door's always open?"

  "You're a liar! I was never—"

  "Look, did someone tell you you were banned? That's not okay. I can have a talk with them."

  "You ought to," you say, mollified. "So I'm invited?"

  "Yes?"

  "Good."

  "It's next week," she offers. "Say, what happened to your eye?"

  You touch it instinctively. "Nothing." It's cold and polished, as always.

  "Let me rephrase that. Why do you just have an empty socket of an eye? Don't get me wrong, it's badass, but I would've expected… I don't know, sunglasses."

  "That's private," you say vaguely. You touch it again. It's there.

  Madrigal scratches her unsightly scar. "Alright, be that way. Just let me know if you find anything out. You're dismissed, or whatever."

  "I don't need to be dismissed," you protest.

  "Whatever."

  >[1] Whatever, indeed. At this point you might as well get Monty out of the way. You'll have to see him sooner or later.

  >[2] Kill two birds with one stone and speak to Ellery. If you can report back to Madrigal, all the better. (And maybe you can extort more out of her.)

  >[3] Back to the miniature. You need to make sure nothing got damaged in your mad rush out the door.

  >[4] Write-in.

  In response, you scuff pictures into the mud with the heel of your boot. "Godsdamn," Madrigal says after thirty seconds of silence. "It's all about the power plays with you, isn't it?"

  You are too busy putting the final touches on a rough mud self-portrait to respond.

  "And the pettiest possible ones, too." She hasn't moved, either. "Ngh," she scoffs (you have moved on to a mud crocodile by this time) and brushes past you.

  Satisfied, you smudge out the drawings and leave.

  ?Wow, you showed her. Good work, Charlie. Excellent use of our time.?

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It's not as if you have anywhere pressing to go. Monty doesn't count. What's he going to do, kick you out if you don't show? The thought is risible. No, it's better to go strip-mine Ellery for information. The more you get now, the less you have to interact with him later, you figure. How's that for a good use of time?

  ?Don't misunderstand me. I wholly approve of this endeavor, Charlie. I've been saying you need leverage for months.?

  There's a but. He doesn't say anything nice unqualified.

  ?But 'conversations' are so misleading. So circuitous. Not at all efficient. No, we'll be going to the source of the matter. Tonight.?

  Something about the way he says that makes you nervous. (That's not true. The way he says things is always the same: neutral, uninflected. But you're still nervous.)

  ?But go on, have fun for now.?

  Ellery's tent is, from the outside, exactly the same as it was a week ago. It's considerably cleaner on the inside, in that all the junk formerly on the floor is now shoved in heaps in the corners. You're warmed by the rosy glow of charity. In the back is Ellery himself, pinning string to a corkboard you don't remember from before. "Lottie," he signs one-handed. "One sec. Go on, sit down."

  A velvet chaise longue is shoved up against the wall, but its surface is so papered with books and boxes and notes and mysterious implements that it hardly seems to count as a seat. You see no bed of any kind. You stand.

  "Just shove some stuff off," he clarifies after he steps away. Unwillingly, you place the most benign-looking box (full of logs, for some reason) on the ground and sit. No sense in bothering him before the interrogation.

  He pulls up an armchair that you're dead certain didn't just exist. "So," he says before you can begin. "How long has someone else been in your head?"

  ?Hm.?

  >[1] What? Never. Never. You have no idea what he's talking about.

  >[2] Oh yeah? How long has he been a weirdo recluse, huh?

  >[3] That's private. And irrelevant. And it's rude to be nosy!

  >[4] (inaudibly: three years)

  >[5] Write-in.

  You gape.

  ?Come on. You look like a fish.?

  Your mouth closes, slowly, and settles into an unconvincing rictus. "Uh," you stammer. "Never! I— I don't know what you're talking about!"

  Ellery rests his chin on one hand. "Really?"

  "Never! There has never been, uh, someone else in my head… I don't…" You're already running out of steam. "…Yeah! How would you… why would you… God, you'd have to be real stupid to come to that conclusion."

  There's a pregnant pause.

  "...How did you come to that conclusion?"

  He raises his eyebrows. "I wouldn't think it's relevant, since it's so obviously wrong."

  The rictus is slipping at the edges. You mirror his chin-in-hand position instead. "Well, I mean, it's for the betterment of… maybe it'll help you get less stupid ideas."

  "I can't argue with that." Is he making fun of you? Him? "Okay, firstly, you were talking to yourself. Out loud. On multiple occasions."

  ?I've told you to stop doing that.?

  "That's normal," you say. "Everybody does that."

  "Everyone talks to themselves, yeah. What they don't do is hold one-sided conversations."

  It takes you a second, but your heart leaps when you realize. "So… you haven't seen, or, say, heard this someone else personally? It's just guessing?"

  "No."

  You bury your face in your hands.

  "I mean, mostly no. If that were all, yeah, it'd be an educated guess. But at the end— there wasn't a lot of room for debate."

  "Why," you ask, muffled. You really don't want to know why.

  "Your eyes were gold. Both of them."

  God bless the King and all the ships at sea.

  "Look, Lottie, I'm not trying to— this isn't an interrogation, it's not blackmail. I just thought maybe you'd like to talk to someone who'd, you know, been through the same thing."

  You uncover your face. "What?"

  "What?" He's perplexed. "Oh, you don't… Uh, for a while it was me and… me in here."

  "What?"

  He hesitates. "Look, I don't exactly know how it varies, you know, between people. But it's worth a shot."

  >[1] What? No it isn't. No similarities exist. Because you're all alone here, like a normal person, and not a crazy person.

  >[2] What? No it isn't. You're not taking pity handouts like some kind of… person who needs pity. Because you don't. Need pity.

  >[3] What? No it isn't. He's talking about something else entirely, like an idiot. He has no help for you.

  >[4] This smells like opportunity. Sensitive subjects? Private conversations? You'll be able to pump him like a water screw. Game Night, here you come.

  >[5] You don't give a damn if he's totally deluded. It was "for a while". It ended. You have to know how.

  >[6] Write-in.

  You tug anxiously at a lock of hair. You haven't actually been listening since he said…

  "For a while?"

  Ellery looks pained. "Yeah."

  Obvious social cues haven't stopped you before. "So, it's gone. You got rid of it."

  "…Yeah. Well, not—"

  "How?" Please. Please.

  He slumps backwards in the armchair as if deflated. "It's not worth it," he signs dispassionately. "It's not worth it. I promise."

  ?The man sees sense.?

  "Well, that's hardly for you to decide," you say. "You wanted to lend a helping hand? I'm asking for the helping hand."

  ?It won't work even if he tells you.?

  "It is actually for me to decide." His smile doesn't come anywhere near his muddy eyes. "It's for the best, Lottie."

  ?Whatever he had was surface. Minimal. You have no idea how deep I'm rooted.?

  "Look, no offense, but I'm sure I can handle it much better than you did. What were the symptoms?"

  ?If you tried, if you even started, you'd be drooling on the floor before you got halfway through. I'm telling you this because I'm not interested in seeing it happen.?

  Ellery picks incessantly at his pant leg. It's a long time before he speaks. "I don't think— look, no offense, but I don't think you could understand."

  You fume. "That's just code for 'you're not telling me.'"

  "If you want."

  >[1] You have little interest in prying this out right now. Leave.

  >[2] Hold on a minute. Would these unknowable symptoms include "becoming a weirdo"? Because you might be onto something.

  >[3] Hold on a minute. You don't care about the drooling, or whatever. Is Richard saying it is possible?

  >[4] Write-in.

  "I don't want, actually," you snipe. "Would one of the symptoms be, say, not talking to anyone? Because—"

  ?Defenestrating tact, I see.?

  Ellery stands with great force, pushing the armchair back— no, there wasn't an armchair after all. "Who asked you to do this?"

  "Nobody asked me. I just knew, okay?"

  "No you didn't! No you— for fuck's sake, Lottie, all you ever do is generally look down your nose at people and walk off to talk to yourself. You know approximately jack shit about—"

  "I don’t talk to myself," you say.

  "Yeah. Sure. I don't believe you know a single thing about me, or anyone else for that matter, so who asked you?"

  "Nobody!" Madrigal is at least offering you something.

  "You know what?" He wipes a hand across his forehead. He's grinning feverishly. "I bet it was Monty. He's all about the— gods, the teambuilding, or whatever. Fix you and fix me. Hah. You went and saw him, right?"

  "Uh," you say. "Not yet."

  "Well! Go and tell him to keep out of it! I don't want his idea of help, and I certainly don't want yours."

  "Uh—"

  "Now!"

  On one hand, you're not frightened of him. On the other, he looks about to pop an artery, and you don't want his death so easily attributed to you. You make, you think, a graceful and not-hasty exit.

  He's right, though: a dusky greenish tint is beginning to seep into the water as you emerge. Monty is assuredly waiting.

  is high-pitched and has a moderate U.S. Southern accent, though she has no idea: she just thinks everybody else talks a little funny. Madrigal is slightly and incongruously Midwestern.