Work Text:
One
Wirt balled up another piece of paper and tossed it over his shoulder to join its brethren. His room was scattered with abandoned drafts, an effect that he privately rather liked the look of, though his mother was definitely going to make him clean it up before he went to bed. He smoothed a new sheet of paper on his desk and readied his pen. This time, he was pretty sure he knew what to say.
Dear Beatrice,
I’m not sure this letter will get to you, but I decided to write anyway, just in case. I wanted to let you know that Greg and I both got home safely and we’ve resumed what I would call our normal lives, though honestly nothing is really one hundred percent normal with Greg around. No lasting harm done from the cold, or the Beast, or the trees, or anything like that, though.
It was all a little chaotic when we left, so I hope that you’re doing all right. Did you stay to see what happened to the Beast and the Woodcutter? I hope you got home safe, and that your family is doing well now that they’ve all been de-winged. Please say hello to your mother for me in particular, and thank her for the dirt and for saving me and Jason Funderberker (the frog, not my romantic rival).
Speaking of, I think that things with Sara are going...well, kind of okay, I think! After we got back she found this tape I made for her- it’s kind of a long story- and I invited her to listen to it at my house. I thought you’d be proud of me for that! We listened to some other tapes too, and she liked the poetry and the clarinet, and we went out for ice cream afterward even though it was pretty cold out, so I guess that means she doesn’t hate my company at least. It turns out that she volunteered for the mascot job because she plays the oboe and double reeds can’t be in marching band. She asked me if I wanted to play some duets sometime. Jason Funderberker (my romantic rival, not the frog) doesn’t play anything, so score one for Wirt there!
You’d think that I would be feeling better about the whole situation, given the above paragraph, but really I’ve reached new heights of torment. I didn’t understand, when I used to admire her from afar, what it would be like to get so close and still not know what her feelings are! Should I confess my love? If so how, and when? Is it worth it to risk this newfound friendship? But if I don’t speak, am I just giving Jason Funderberker (you know which one) the chance to usurp my place in her affections?
I really would value your advice, if you do get this letter and have a way of writing back. I’m going to try to send it via Jason Funderberker (the frog, not etc.), which may sound a little crazy, but I know better than most now that things being a little crazy doesn’t mean they’re not real. My mom made Greg put him back- the frog, that is. I guess in our world it’s not really okay for a kid to put socks on a frog and carry it around all the time. I took Greg back to the place where we found him- very carefully this time- so we could say goodbye. Jason Funderberker just made a big croak and hopped off into the bushes.
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever see him again,” said Greg. I patted him on the shoulder.
“He’s probably gone off to sign that recording contract after all. He’ll have a wonderful time, with all the flies he can eat and lots of admirers. Probably a permanent gig on the ferry,” I said. I was trying to be comforting, but Greg just sighed.
“That’s what I mean. He’ll probably forget all his humble beginnings. Fame can turn anyone’s head, you know.”
At least he didn’t sound too sad about it, just philosophical. Did I mention that nothing’s ever completely normal around Greg?
Anyway, that was yesterday, and this morning I woke up thinking: what kind of frog lets a kid carry it around and put socks on it? Not a normal one from this world, I’ll tell you that much. So I started thinking, what if Jason Funderberker is a little bit from both of our worlds? What if he still has a connection to the Unknown? So here I am, a reasonable high school student, about to try to send a letter via frog. I guess if you get this, you’ll know it worked!
Yours,
Wirt
He folded the letter carefully in thirds, then went downstairs to find an envelope on the shelf in his mom’s office. That involved crossing the living room, where Greg was industriously playing something that seemed to involve a racecar set, a stuffed lion, a bunch of Wirt’s stepdad’s ties, and a lot of talking to himself. Wirt elected not to ask. He found an envelope, almost got a stamp before reminding himself that frogs probably didn’t care much for human postage, and suffered a small crisis of conscience just as he was about to seal it.
“Hey, Greg,” he called. “I’m writing a letter to Beatrice. Do you want to say anything?”
Greg sat up and cocked his head.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Tell her she should come visit us! I’ll show her all the sights around town.”
Wirt dutifully copied down:
P.S. Greg says you should come visit us. I doubt that’s actually possible, but at least in the spirit of the offer, I agree. You’d be very welcome with us. I’m sure we could figure out something to tell our parents.
Then he refolded the letter, labelled the envelope Beatrice, and sealed it. And then got a plastic bag and carefully sealed that, too, since frog courier was likely to be a fairly damp method of transit.
Down at the cemetery, Wirt edged sideways through the overgrown grass and spindly bushes; there was just enough of a gap between the wall and the train tracks to fit through safely, if you were careful and not splitting your attention between one annoying little brother and one frankly overzealous policeman. It had rained the night before and the last of the fall leaves had turned into a damp, slippery mat on the ground. Nothing stirred. Wirt peered unhopefully into the underbrush, but he didn’t even know what signs of frog habitation looked like.
“Uh, Jason...Funderberker?” he hazarded. Part of him expected his classmate to appear and demand to know why Wirt was looking for him out behind the graveyard of all places. Another part sort of expected a weirdly easygoing frog to appear and stand to attention.
Nothing happened.
Wirt cleared his throat, feeling ridiculous.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re around,” he said to the empty air. “Maybe you’ve found some nice mud to burrow in for the season, or just moved on to somewhere else...but if you happened to be around and going back over to the Unknown any time soon, I would really appreciate it if you could bring this letter along with you. I mean, if it’s on your way and all.”
It occurred to him a little too late that even if frogs didn’t take USPS, they might like some kind of compensation.
“I could, uh, bring you some...flies?” he ventured, not at all confident in his ability to follow through. You didn’t see many flies around in November. Maybe the pet store would have some?
“Or, you know what, you let me know what kind of thing you’d like and I’ll just...get that,” he said, and then shook his head at himself. “Great, Wirt, you’re bargaining with thin air and still getting a bad deal. Well done.”
With a sigh, he tucked the letter under a bush, weighted it with a stone, and started the slow trudge home.
He didn’t have much hope that the whole strategy would work, and thinking too hard about how he was trying to get a frog to deliver a letter to an imaginary land made him cringe with embarrassment, but when he returned the next day to check the letter was gone. Probably just the wind, he told himself, but that didn’t stop him from sneaking back out to the railroad tracks every few days, just in case. About two weeks later, shivering in a cold wind and swearing that it would be the last time he came to check, kicking at the bush revealed a worn, slightly slimy piece of paper.
Dear Wirt,
I’m so glad you and Greg made it home safely! It was definitely a bit chaotic when you left, but I knew you’d be fine. Nobody’s caught a glimpse of the Beast since that day, either, so good job on that one! I know the Woodsman’s been spreading the story around. They probably have a whole new song about how you’re the hero of the Unknown in that stupid tavern, but I wouldn’t know because I refuse to go back there.
I mean, I could go back, because the scissors worked and me and my family are all human again, but it’s the principle of the thing.
My mother says hello, and that she’s very glad to hear that you and Jason Funderberker (yes, Wirt, obviously the frog), are all right, and also she says thank you for finally knocking a bit of sense into me so that I would come home. She’s literally standing over me as I write this to make sure that I pass that along, just so you know. I don’t think you should get credit for it at all. Well, maybe credit for stealing the scissors, that was pretty crafty.
My family are all doing well, though, thank you for asking- even if it’s going to be a long, long time before they let me forget that I got them all turned into bluebirds. Honestly I think that was a bit of an overreaction on that one bird’s part. My whole family? Out to the second cousins and great aunts and everybody? Surely between all those people we dropped enough crumbs and complimented enough pretty birdsong to make up for one rock. Sheesh.
Sounds like things are definitely going well with Sara! Let me give you one piece of advice, unless you’re enjoying being tortured too much to give it up: don’t worry about when to tell you that you like her. She definitely already knows. Honestly, Wirt, poetry and clarinet? At least it sounds like she likes you too, I can’t imagine anyone who didn’t like you would sit through that and then ask you out for ice cream. No offense, I’m sure your clarinet playing is lovely, it’s just that that requires...a certain kind of fondness. So, you know, good for you!
And nice job figuring out a way to communicate, too. I didn’t actually see Jason Funderberker drop off your letter, but I found it waiting outside my house yesterday, so I’ll put my reply in the same place and assume that he’ll hop on by the next time he’s in the area. I’m surprised he had time to deliver it, honestly! He’s made quite a splash in the local music scene, you know, and he’s in great demand. So I’m not sure when exactly he’ll have time to deliver this, but I’m sure it will get there eventually.
Tell Greg that I appreciate his invitation. I don’t have any idea how I could come visit you- I doubt Mr. Funderberker could take me along with him in whatever method he uses, even if I could find him to ask- but never say never, right? Glad the little guy is doing okay.
Sincerely,
Beatrice
On the reverse side, there was a note written in a different, more uneven handwriting, as if the author was unaccustomed to holding a pen. It said:
does greg have an extra pair of red socks
i would wear them with pride
Wirt laughed, and went to tell Greg that Jason Funderberker hadn’t forgotten about his humble beginnings after all.
Two
Wirt trudged through the woods. It seemed familiar, in an eerie sort of way, but something wasn’t quite right. It was the middle of winter, he was sure of it, but most of the leaves were still on the trees, red and yellow and brown and rustling quietly in the wind, just like last time he was here. It felt weirdly isolated, too, like he was the only living thing in the whole forest.
Wait a second.
“Greg?” he called, his voice rising in panic as memory came flooding back. “Greg?”
Greg was...stuck in a tree? Lost in a snowstorm? That didn’t make sense, the sun was shining and it was much too warm for snow. Wirt spun desperately in a circle, looking for any sign of his wayward brother. Just trees, tree, and more trees.
“Wirt! Wirt, calm down,” called a familiar voice.
“Beatrice?”
“I said calm down! None of this is real. Well, I’m real, but nothing else is. You’re dreaming.”
“I’m...dreaming?” Wirt repeated, finally catching sight of the familiar bluebird perched nearby.
“Yep, that is in fact what I just said.” Beatrice stepped off of her branch, dropped like a stone for a moment, and managed to even out with some spectacularly awkward flapping just before she hit the ground. “Great, thanks a lot, Wirt, I definitely didn’t miss being a bluebird at all.”
“I gotta be honest, I have no idea what’s going on here,” Wirt said. He folded himself down to sit against a tree, figuring that there was no point in continuing to walk if he wasn’t actually trying to get anywhere. Beatrice landed on a twig across from him. “Can you explain again?”
She made an aggrieved huffing sound. “You’re dreaming. This”- she gestured with a wing- “is all your dream. I’m visiting your dream, because I’m a smart and dedicated friend who went to the trouble of figuring out a loophole in the system where I can talk to you because technically denizens of the Unknown are allowed to deliver messages in dreams. I look like this again because apparently your subconscious still thinks of me as a stupid bluebird, and since it’s your dream you get to control how I appear.”
Wirt hid a smile. He’d missed Beatrice’s impatience with...well, everything.
“I’ve only ever known you as a bluebird,” he pointed out reasonably. “How else am I supposed to picture you?”
“As a human, please! The way I actually am!”
“I’ll give it a try,” he said, and closed his eyes to concentrate as hard as he could on the fact that Beatrice was really a human and not a bird.
There was a thump.
“A little warning please!” said Beatrice. He opened his eyes to find her- a very human-looking version of her, though her hair was still kind of feathery- brushing dirt and leaves off of herself where she’d evidently fallen out of her tree. She inspected her hands, her sweater and sneakers, tugged her hair over her shoulder, and groaned.
“I don’t look anything like this!”
“How was I supposed to know? What do you look like, then?”
“Uh. Pale skin, freckles, kind of reddish-brown hair, brown eyes?”
Wirt closed his eyes and concentrated again, trying to put together a mental picture.
“Closer, I guess,” Beatrice said, “but my hair’s too short and you went kind of overboard on the freckles.”
“Maybe you could draw me a picture of yourself?” he suggested, opening his eyes. She looked fine to him, and less feathery this time, but he didn’t know what he was aiming for.
“Maybe you could work on letting me control what I look like,” she said.
“Wait, can I do that? You didn’t say I could do that.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll try to...not control things at all, I guess? Honestly I’m surprised it’s been working as well as it has, I’m usually terrible at making dreams go how I want them to. You know how they say that if you realize you’re dreaming you should be able to decide what happens and all? When I realize I’m dreaming I always try to make myself fly, I figure that should be a good test, and it never works.”
Though he had been able to change things here better than ever before. Just in case, Wirt thought really hard about floating, levitating, possibly sprouting wings, spiraling up into the trees, the true wild freedom of the air with everything falling away below him…
“Yeah, you’re still on the ground, if you were wondering,” said Beatrice. “Though it looks like you’re really enjoying imagining that.”
Wirt sighed and opened his eyes again. Beatrice was leaning against another tree, inspecting her not-quite-right hands.
“Flying’s really not that hard,” she said. “You just...well. You...uh. I guess it’s kind of hard to translate into human.”
“That makes sense.” How did you go about letting someone else control what they looked like in your dream? He’d never tried to hand over the reins of a dream before. It was rare enough that he even knew he was dreaming in the first place.
“Maybe it’ll help if I just stop thinking about it so much,” Wirt said. “Distract me with something. What was the message you were supposed to be sending?”
“Uh.” Beatrice’s face screwed up. “Hi?”
“Hi? The message was ‘hi’? Really?”
“I was a little more focused on the mechanics! Anyway, like I said, it’s a loophole. It doesn’t have to be a good message, technically, just a message.
“Well, hi back, then. And thanks for figuring it out, it’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” said Beatrice, softening. She folded her hands on her knees tipped her head back against the tree. “How’s Greg doing?”
“He’s fine. He’s...being Greg, you know. Keeps telling people all about the Unknown, but the school psychotherapist said apparently making up a story like that is a perfectly good coping mechanism for a near-death experience, so nobody’s really worrying about it.”
“That’s lucky, I guess.”
“Yeah, unlike some of us who are expected to behave like rational adults. It’s okay, though. Hey, are you visiting him too?”
“Uh, no, I thought you could just say hi to him for me. This weird body really isn’t that bad compared to what would happen with Greg, have you seen that kid’s dreams?”
“No, because that’s literally impossible-”
“They are extremely strange,” Beatrice went on, talking right over him. “I’m not saying it’s not good to have some imagination, but wow. Not somewhere I really want to hang out. Besides, it works better if you’re actually dreaming about the Unknown to start out with, which you were.”
“Oh. Glad I could help, I guess.”
“Yeah. Uh...Wirt? I know you wanted to stop controlling this dream, but maybe control it...a little more?”
Wirt followed her gaze upward, to where the tops of the trees and the sky were eroding away into a glaring golden light that hurt to look at. It seemed to be getting closer by the second.
“I’m not doing that!” he yelped, jumping to his feet. Around him the forest started blurring alarmingly.
“I know, that’s the point!” said Beatrice. “Maybe try doing something about it!”
A weird wailing started up in the distance, triggering a feeling of dread that was somehow familiar. Wirt cocked his head.
“Hang on,” he said, “that’s...oh. That’s my alarm. Huh. Is waking up always like this, and you just don’t remember it?”
“I have no idea!” said Beatrice, who suddenly sounded very far away. Wirt winced away from the overpowering light and felt the ghost of his real body doing the same thing, somewhere.
“Sorry, I don’t think I can stop it!” he called. “But I’ll be back, okay? And I expect a better message next time!”
“Bye Wirt! Have a-”
good day echoed in Wirt’s mind as he winced and slapped at the alarm clock. It was one of those crystal clear winter days where the sky is perfectly blue and the sun streams into the window like it doesn’t know it can’t possibly win the battle against freezing temperatures. He had to leave for school in half an hour.
Outside, one solitary bird was singing.
Three
In early spring, Wirt sat bolt upright in bed and said to his darkened room,
“The scissors!”
It seemed to echo a little, his voice breaking the stillness of the night and jolting him the rest of the way out of sleep.
“Those were Adelaide’s scissors,” he said aloud, in horrified realization. “Of course she said she could save Beatrice’s family, why wouldn't she promise that? She was evil! She wanted child servants! She probably just told Beatrice that some random pair of scissors would turn her back into a human but she’s just going to cut her own wings off! I’ve got to warn her!”
He leapt out of bed- or, well, he intended to leap out of bed, but his legs were tangled in the sheets and he landed on the floor with a thump.
Maybe, thought Wirt, lying very still and hoping nobody had heard, maybe this was a problem for the morning.
The next day, Wirt announced his newfound interest in the great outdoors.
The Unknown had always seemed just slightly familiar to him, though it had taken until a few days after their adventure for him to realize why: once when he was six or seven, he’d managed to get lost on an ill-fated class trip to a nearby state park. Alone and increasingly terrified, the trees around him had seemed to grow bigger with every step, the air heavier, the bird calls and scuttling creature sounds more ominous. By the time the harried teacher and the park guide had tracked him down, he’d been convinced that he’d somehow wandered into a whole different world. He’d put it down to his overactive young imagination, until he’d found himself in that same otherworldly forest again.
If getting lost in the woods was enough to get him to the edge of the Unknown once, he figured, it should work again. It made a certain kind of poetic sense, that every forest might just touch that eerie otherworld, if you managed to get yourself sufficiently turned around and frightened.
He started out in the same state park. Every weekend he put on his hiking boots and filled his pack with compass and wilderness guide and trail map, and then, when no one was looking, he carefully stowed it behind a rock by the park entrance. Every weekend he spun around and set out in a random direction, scrambling over rocks and pushing through dense, spiky undergrowth, and every weekend he somehow stumbled out of the deep forest and onto one of the neatly-kept trails with its cheery painted blazes. How could getting lost be so difficult? As spring unfurled he grew more and more desperate, each bird in the increasingly leafy branches reminding him of the urgency of his quest.
And then, of course, he got roped into babysitting Greg.
The two of them were closer, after their adventure in the Unknown, but Wirt’s need to get to Beatrice was buzzing under his skin and he didn’t appreciate having to waste a whole Saturday. Greg wanted to go to the state park too, but Wirt wasn’t risking dragging his brother back to the Unknown- not to mention that Greg’s little legs probably weren’t up to much bushwhacking- so he gritted his teeth and stuck to the trails for once.
“This is so nice!” said Greg. “The fresh air, the wind in the trees, the lingering smell of dog poo.”
“Wait, you smell that too?” Wirt asked.
“Yeah, I think it’s on my shoe.”
“It’s-” Wirt just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “You think it’s on your shoe. Why didn’t you check?”
“Well, it’s all part of the nature experience, right?” said Greg brightly, balancing on first one foot and then the other to inspect his soles. “Yep, there it is. Must’ve stepped right in it.”
“Go find some leaves or grass or something to wipe it on,” Wirt told him, and watched to make sure he actually did it.
The smell lingered even so, surrounding them in their own little unpleasant cloud as they trudged up the winding path. Wirt was just starting to get used to it when three bikers came zooming around the corner and clattered to a stop just in front of them, resolving into Maddie, Alex, and Anesha from his World History section.
“Hey Wirt!” said Maddie, reaching for a water bottle and squirting some into her mouth. “Nice day, right?”
“You guys are mountain biking, huh,” said Wirt weakly. “That’s...really cool.”
“You should try it sometime! The trails here are great,” said Anesha. Wirt’s mind filled with a vision of himself wiping out on the smallest of obstacles, the others laughing and barrelling on without him.
“I, uh, no. I...don’t think it’s for me,” he said.
“Hey, do you guys smell something?” put in Alex.
“Oh, it’s us! I stepped in dog poo earlier,” Greg volunteered. “Wirt told me to wipe it off but it didn’t really work that well. See?” He held up his leg to show off the smelly shoe. Wirt buried his face in his hands.
“Yup, that sure is dog poo, little guy,” said Anesha. Wirt could hear laughter in her voice but he didn’t look up.
“Well, we’d better get going,” said Alex. “See ya, Wirt.”
“See ya,” Wirt mumbled.
“Bye!” called Greg. “Cool bikes! Have fun!” He waved enthusiastically as the trio took off again; Wirt looked around to see if there was a rock big enough to hide under for the entire rest of his life.
“Where to now, fearless leader?” said Greg.
“There’s literally one path, Greg. We just keep following it until we get tired and then we turn around and go back again,” Wirt said, failing to keep his annoyance out of his voice. Greg, unsurprisingly, didn’t notice.
“Okay!” he said, and started off again. “Hey Wirt, I made up a song about hiking, do you want to hear it?”
“No,” said Wirt, without much hope that it would make a difference. Sure enough, Greg started warbling:
We are wandering through the wood
We’re meandering through the forest
Doing all the things that woodsmen should
Now come on and join the chorus…
He gave Wirt an encouraging look.
“Absolutely not,” said Wirt.
We like to hike!
To hike is what we like!
Hike, hike, hike, hike,
We like hike!
finished Greg triumphantly. Wirt prayed that they weren’t going to run into anyone else he knew- on this beautiful Saturday afternoon in spring, in the one park close enough to town to be accessible. Sure, that seemed likely.
He and Greg were closer these days, he reminded himself. It’s just that sometimes it was easier to be close to Greg when he was, well, a little farther away from Greg.
“Do you want a turn making up a song now?” Greg asked brightly.
“No.”
“Are you sure? I bet you’d be good at it. You make up all those songs for Sara on your clarinet.”
Wirt was aware that he was turning bright red, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop it. At least there wasn’t anyone around at the moment.
“How do you know that?” he demanded. “Have you been spying on me?”
“No, you talk to yourself while you’re composing,” said Greg.
“I do not!”
“You definitely do. I bet that’s what all great composers do. Maybe I should try talking to myself while I make up my next song!”
“You do talk to yourself, Greg, all the time.”
“We’ve got that in common, then!”
Wirt rubbed his eyes. It was going to be a really, really long afternoon. Maybe he could convince Greg to turn back soon; at least at home he had toys and things to occupy himself with, instead of just pestering Wirt.
“Okay, I think I’ve got the next verse,” said Greg. “Ready?”
“Wait,” said Wirt. Something in his voice made Greg actually stop his chatter and look up, then follow Wirt’s gaze back down to their feet.
“We’re not...on the path,” said Wirt slowly. He looked around. Just trees, but they seemed a little closer together than usual, a little taller, and the shade under their leaves was a little darker than it should have been.
“Greg, do you see any trail markings? Any blazes?” The two of them turned in a circle, inspecting the trees for any sign of paint.
“Nope!” reported Greg, and Wirt actually hugged him.
“You did it!” he cried. “We’re lost! I can’t believe that all it took was you annoying me into not watching where I was going.”
“Glad to help,” said Greg loyally. “Why do we want to get lost, though?”
And just like that, it all came crashing back to Wirt.
“Beatrice,” he said, “we have to find Beatrice. I have to warn her about the scissors, oh my god, I can’t believe I just gave her the scissors and left without thinking about it-”
“BEATRICE!” yelled Greg, apparently taking this to heart. “BEATRICE WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Ow,” said Wirt, putting a hand to his ear. And then, like magic, a familiar voice floated out of the woods.
“I’m coming, hold your horses! Who’s calling, anyw- Greg? Wirt? What are you doing here?”
She came into view between the trees, and while the voice was definitely Beatrice’s, it was coming from a stranger, someone Wirt had never seen before, and who was unmistakably human.
“Beatrice, is that you?” he asked, off balance.
“Of course it’s me! What- oh, right, you’re used to me being a bluebird. Well, just after you left it was snip snip with those scissors you stole, and now we’re all back to normal.”
“...oh,” said Wirt weakly.
“What are you doing back here? I thought you were gone for good!”
“We got lost in the woods,” Greg said. “I helped by being annoying.”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow at Wirt. It was extremely strange that she actually had an eyebrow to raise.
“It’s true, he was very helpfully annoying,” he said. He briefly considered making up some other reason they’d come looking for her, one that wasn’t quite so obviously unnecessary, but he realized he wasn’t actually worried about embarrassing himself in front of Beatrice. She’d already seen him at his worst. Anyway, Greg was better at improvising off the cuff.
“I tried to get lost on purpose because I figured that would be the easiest way to find you. I wanted to warn you, I thought the scissors from Adelaide might be a trap, since we only had her word that they’d actually end the curse on you and your family, and I was worried that you’d all go cutting your wings for nothing, or worse that the scissors had some kind of horrible spell on them and...well, obviously it turned out okay,” he finished, deflating.
“Yeah, they worked fine,” said Beatrice, giving him an odd look. “Thanks for trying to warn me, though, that was sweet of you.”
“You’re welcome, I guess.”
“But Wirt...that was months ago. If there had been something wrong with the scissors, you would’ve been way too late.”
Wirt stared at her for a moment, and then dropped his head into his hands again.
“I didn’t think of that,” he mumbled.
“Me neither,” said Greg, not at all helpfully. Beatrice came over and patted Wirt on the shoulder.
“It’s still weird that you have hands,” he told her.
“It did take a while to get used to them again,” she admitted. “Really, though, I appreciate you figuring out how to warn me. It’s the thought that counts, right? And if you’d gotten here and found out that something bad had already happened, you would’ve just figured out how to fix it.”
“You think so?”
“Sure,” said Beatrice. She only sounded a little like she was humoring him, which Wirt appreciated. “Now, I don’t think you two will be able to stay here long, wherever you’re coming from isn’t really deep enough woods for that.”
“It’s a pretty small state park,” said Wirt.
“I can still hear the traffic noise a little,” Greg volunteered. “If I think about it too hard the trees start going kind of wobbly, though.”
”Don’t think about it,” commanded Wirt and Beatrice at the same time. They smiled at each other.
“How long do you think we’ve got?” Wirt asked.
“Maybe an hour,” said Beatrice. “I’m no expert, though. Maybe if you do this a lot we’ll get better at estimating it.”
“We can certainly try again,” said Wirt. “I’d give anything that’s dependent on Greg’s ability to be annoying pretty good odds of success.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” said Beatrice. “For now, though, pull up a log. You too, Greg. We’ve got an hour or so- how’ve you been?”