“Don’t you, too? Audrey told me you all were going swimming.”

“Yeah—I just. I don’t know. I was just feeling pretty tired. And then I thought… well, maybe I can practice my sewing at the very least.”

Phoebe nodded, placing her fabric down onto one of the desks.

“How’s the costume going?” I asked.

She sighed heavily, running her fingers through the white fur. “I don’t know. I mean… it’s just a lot. They meant well, having me work on it, but now I feel, like, totally overwhelmed.”

“What have you got?”

“You want to see?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Definitely.”

Reluctantly, she showed me her sketches. She’d drawn a dramatic, hooded coat that swept the ground. It had spikes at the shoulders and spikes on the hood that she’d shaded light blue—icicles that formed a kind of terrifying armor. Down the front, she’d added a spill of red.

It was honestly incredible.

It was also deeply terrifying.

“Is that…” I pointed to the red.

“Blood,” Phoebe said.

“Oh my,” I said.

“Fuck. It’s stupid. I knew it was stupid.”

“What! It’s not stupid.”

“It’s a yeti, you know? I was trying to make him scary. Like, maybe that’s stuff he’s killed, or eaten? I’m going to have to start over.”

“Oh my God, don’t start over. I like the idea of the coat. It makes him seem…” In spite of myself, I thought of what Jess Orlando had said about Oliver’s character in Power Jam. “Like, more human, in a way.”

“That’s what I wanted,” said Phoebe. “Plus then Oliver could still move.”

We studied her sketch for another moment.

“It might be a little too human,” said Phoebe.

“I see what you’re saying. It’s like… more powerful winter sorcerer than yeti.”

“Yeah. Or, like, commander of a frozen army.”

“Maybe it needs to be less good,” I said. “Like… less polished. He would have made it himself, right? How dexterous are his paws? What kind of materials would he have had? He wouldn’t be able to make anything that nice.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. That’s a really good point. Thanks, Celia.”

I’d hardly done anything. She was the one who’d put in all the work.

“How’s the sewing going?” she asked.

“The machines are kind of intimidating,” I said.

“You want me to show you again?”

“Please,” I said.

She did, and then we worked quietly for a while, Phoebe sketching, me feeding scrap fabric through the machine to practice seams. It was nice, to be quiet with someone else. Eventually Phoebe got up and sat at the machine in front of me with her furry fabric. The only sound was whirring needles, until there came a cry that sounded a lot like Jacques, only louder, much more human—

“Celia,” Phoebe said. “Can you come here?”