The prospect of Monty isn't exciting. The man has the demeanor of a tutor for small children, or possibly an overenthusiastic secretary. His consistent pleasantness is both grating and more than a little suspicious. He must be compensating for something.

  His tent (you have only ever heard him refer to it as his "office") is centrally located— one of the perks of being in charge, you suppose. A wooden sign tied neatly to its front reads "Montgomery Gewecke - Please Knock".

  You don't knock.

  The interior of Monty's tent is divided in two by a white screen. The hidden section must be his personal quarters, because there's only a desk and some unhappy houseplants visible as you walk in. And Monty himself, of course: two feet propped up, reading a book. He's wearing a sweater. Obviously.

  He has to set the book down to turn the page with his good hand— his only hand; you're just calling it good to be polite. The left side of the sweater dangles limply. You cough.

  He looks up. "Hi, Charlotte. Did you knock? I didn't hear…"

  Your look says everything he needs to know. "Right," he continues. "Thank you for coming, though I must say it did take you, eh, quite a while. But you're here now, so I appreciate it."

  This is excruciating.

  "Firstly, I wanted to say, you know, congratulations on the… I heard it was a successful expedition? You're in one piece, which is what counts. I hope you found what you were looking for."

  "Yes," you say.

  "Good! There's just— sit down, would you? There's just some minor quibbles we have to mop up, if you don't mind."

  What if you did mind?

  Monty leans conspiratorially over the desk. "By any chance did you spelunk Tom's Cave?"

  You lean back, away from him. "So what if I did?" you demand.

  "Nothing, nothing. I've just received a complaint, uh, by Margo— that's Margo Lindew who charters the camp? She says you entered specifically without her permission… does the sound familiar?"

  ?I told you you should've gone through official channels.?

  You say nothing. Monty tilts his head. "Maybe? Well, I've received a request from her to, uh, evict you. Or she'll revoke the charter."

  Your face flushes hot. You lean forward, now, into Monty's face. "You can't do that!" You can't be on your own again! Not on your own. With Richard. "And what about Ellery, huh? He went too!"

  "Margo says you were the, quote, 'ringleader'. I'll talk to Ellery separately. Please calm down, Charlotte."

  His voice is so placid you find yourself, beyond all reason, calming down. "You can't," you say, less heatedly. "You can't treat me that way."

  "I can."

  You grip the desk. "But—"

  "Margo is a bitch, and I don't like her holding things over my head. I don't want to evict you. But as of right now, I can't justify not doing so."

  "Yes you can! You just said she was a bitch!"

  "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you haven't made any meaningful interpersonal connections since you moved in?"

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  Your eyes narrow. "Are you asking if I've made friends?"

  "That's not what I said. Moving on— so you have little personal motive to stick around. You're a transient. That's fine; we have many of those. But it means I can't explain to Margo why you ought to stay without, eh, calling her a bitch. And I do have an interest in maintaining interpersonal connections, Charlotte."

  "Coward," you growl.

  "Now, if you were to develop some connections in the interim so I had something to point to, or obtain some letters of recommendation… I could do something."

  "You could do something if I made friends."

  "Again, that's not what I said." He leans back. "But if that's how you'd like to put it, yes. Make friends, Charlotte, or you're getting evicted."

  You're:

  >[1] Outraged.

  >[2] Petulant.

  >[3] Embarrassed.

  >[4] Glad.

  >[5] Write-in

  You stare intently at the grain of Monty's desk to avoid looking him in the eyes. It's low-quality stuff, more like particle board than proper wood. It's more likely paper, though. Is there a signature?

  Monty's talking about something that doesn't matter, you hope, because you would rather never speak to him again.

  ?I did say this would come back to bite you.?

  ?But think about it this way.?

  ?You don't actually have to do anything.?

  What if you did want to do something? Hypothetically. You wouldn't need to, obviously.

  Well, you would need to. But you wouldn't want to. Or, well—

  ?You wouldn't need to, Charlie. We were going to recharge the Crown, in any case, so it would be the proverbial two fish / one hook. Just head in, drain the Law, tweak a couple opinions—?

  Either you're not really listening to him, either, or that was gibberish. But it's fine. Richard always makes it work out fine. Positive thinking, and all that.

  "—So please stay out of Margo's hair, okay?"

  You don't immediately realize he's waiting for an answer. It takes longer to muster up the one he's seeking.

  "…Uh, right."

  "Good, good. Now, like I said, we'll keep this between us for the time being…"

  "Right."

  "Don't want to complicate things."

  "Yep."

  Is he understanding the messages you're sending with every inch of your face? 'Please end this?'

  ?Don't get all flustered. See this as the opportunity it is.?

  You're seeing it just fine, you think. It's— it's teambuilding. Never have you more wanted to skewer yourself through the heart and bubble blood out your mouth, a la tragic heroine Vivian Fortescue. But less ignoble than her. (Maybe the same ignoble, given these circumstances.)

  Was Monty hoping for something else? You won't oblige. "…You're dismissed," he says finally, and you flounce out in hopefully dramatic fashion.

  ?We'll start tonight, like I said.?

  The evening mugginess is just starting to set in, and tents are lighting up in unnatural cyan-green. The Fenpelok wetlands crouch in the distance, shrouded in shadow. If you look in just the right direction, you can barely make out the obelisk of Lindew's Landing.

  ?But you should sleep, first. You can't be exhausted.?

  For what, calisthenics?

  ?Funny girl. Ellery's our first priority. We're getting into his head.?

  ...Figuratively.

  ?Never figuratively.?

  [END THREAD ONE]

  *What? You made it through Thread 1 and don't want to keep reading? Well, then click away! Or, better yet, leave a comment about what you don't like and I'll give my honest assessment about whether the story improves in those areas.