To which both briefly glance up at me all love-faced.

That is another great thing about Break Week: you are always seeing folks in new contexts!

For example, last Break, I saw Rolph Spengler, Flying Spear Launcher Three, quietly drinking tea, writing in his journal. No wings on, face not painted red, no wire elevating him aloft, no cloven-hoofed boots. Actually, he looked so tender in the face I felt the need of asking what he was writing.

“A letter to my son,” he said.

“I did not even know you had a son, Rolph!” I said.

“Well,” he said.

“I guess so, if you are writing to your son!” I said. “All I ever saw you as? A red-painted, big-winged, cloven-hoofed fellow, flinging down your spears.”

“And I guess all I ever saw you as was a tiny Squatting Ghoul, far below me,” Rolph said. “Whom I kept trying to just barely miss with my spears. My son is Edgar, CHICAGO GANGSTER HIDEOUT.”

And, just like that, we became friends!

Now whenever Rolph, on wire, hovers over our quadrant, he will wave down at me with his non-spear hand, at which I will rise from my squat and throw my arms wide, exposing my chest, as if to say, “Spear me, then, Flying Spear Launcher! Since I am already a Squatting Ghoul, how much worse can my afterlife even get?” At which Rolph will fake-pump his spear at me, as if to say, “Ha ha, talk to you next Break, pal!”

By which I mean: friendship may take time and faith to grow!

(Please note: whenever Rolph and I engage in our fun ritual, no Visitors are present. As if! As if Rolph and I would risk providing our Visitors a subpar experience in that way. No, we engage in this warm friendship exchange only when no Visitors are near. Which is so rarely the case. Normally we are just swamped!)

Moments after hopping over Gwen and Mr. Frame, I find Mr. Frame sitting across from me at Lunch, in Dining, explaining why he, a married man, was just now mating with Gwen.

Mr. Frame’s wife, Ann Frame, used to be on Guillotine-Cart Pull Team Five. Those guillotines, being heavy, needing to be pulled over some fake rough terrain, which, though made of poly, still must be bumpy to seem real, Ann’s back went out, and she was transferred to VICTORIAN WEEKEND, a big adjustment, since, instead of being scary, she had to adopt a mindset of mincing and serving. Now she is Cockney Cook: sweet gig! All she has to do is, every half hour, blunder into this formal dining hall, interrupting some Royals (Visitors) eating in there, then blunder out, knocking over a tea cart while apologizing for her humble class origins in a Cockney accent. But alas: apparently, her new role has caused marital stress, because Mrs. Frame is now constantly practicing her Cockney accent, even while on Break, in the Room.