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Jamie is . . . getting twitchy.

Beyond that door somewhere is his Home. It's close. He knows it. But he needs Joris to get there, and Joris - and Helen - aren't ready to leave yet.

And Jamie isn't ready to tell them about his hopes of getting Home soon.

So there they are.

In an attempt to stave off twitchiness, Jamie's doing his best to fill his time with as many activities as possible. Today it's toasting marshmallows in the fireplace. It's fun to see the rats make faces as the goo drips!

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"It might be a good idea to invest in a stronger coat. And a belt."

"Had ter kip them hidden awll my life, 'til I came here." Wilbur shakes his head. "I'm sick o' et."

"I can understand that," Jamie says, still edging a little. "But some people might not be best pleased to have their personal effects picked up by uncontrollable tentacles. Not to mention their persons. If you follow me."

"Ayuh." Wilbur sighs. "Sorry."

He takes a poker and stirs up the fire a bit.

"It's all right. Just a friendly warning."

Jamie has without thinking slipped into his 'explaining things to the young ones' tone, which may seem a bit rich coming from a boy who looks thirteen. "People here are awfully tolerant really, but that's not the same as not being edgy. Or being fond of being touched without warning."

Wilbur, despite his looks, is fifteen. For all he knows Jamie is as ancient as the hills.

"Ayuh, I've noticed thet. Most people back home hated me, an' they didn't know the half o' et."

. . . well. He wouldn't be far wrong, if he thought that, but that's another story.

"I take it the folks in your Home aren't all like you, then."

"Naw.

"This place seems tew attract the weird."

"Someone around here likes being kept entertained," Jamie says vaguely in response, jerking his hand over his shoulder - either towards the bar, or up in the air, the gesture is ambiguous.

"Ayuh. Wish I knew jest who et was, I'd give them a right talkin' tew about some o' the stuff here."

Jamie's eyebrows go up at this.

"No offense, but - well, you're one to talk, aren't you?"

"Thar was some kind o' zombie eight-year-ol' en here nawt thet long agew. Kipt stumblin' around askin' fer et's mother." He winces.

. . . eight-year-olds aren't that strange. Although possibly all children are strange, if you're a tentacle thing from another world, who knows?

(Jamie is not so much taking the zombie part literally.)

"It's rough on an eight-year-old, being on their own if they're not used to it," he says sympathetically.

"I dunno--et was a zombie. Think et was stuck awn repeat." Wilbur sighs. "Et said 'Ur yew my mommy' about five times an' then tried ter grab me, sew I left."

. . . a human child mistaking Wilbur for its mother does not seem normal, Jamie has to admit.

"I hope no one mistakes me for their mother," he says ruefully. "I've got hard enough work babysitting as is."

Wilbur chuckles. "Ayuh.

"Sew ef yew see a child en a gas mask askin' fer his mommy? I suggest yew kip away."

"You don't need to tell me twice. I'm not looking out for anyone else's children, zombie or not, unless they're paying me for it."

And for some reason most people don't want to hire a scrawny twelve-year-old babysitter. Funny, that.

Wilbur laughs. "Thet's a good start, et any rate."

Jamie is talented at self-preservation.

He just grins, at this, and pops a marshmallow into his mouth.

There is much grinning going on here. Yes.

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