We studied the screen. The Beast was fearsome, yes, but he was also dressed to the nines. He wore a tunic with an upturned lace collar, heavily embroidered gloves, and a set of sparkling necklaces. He wasn’t just a big hulking animal—there was something light about him, some elegance, in spite of his size and heft.

Phoebe spoke first. “There’s an animal quality, but there’s so much more to it than that. The lace and the embroidery create this feeling of daintiness.”

“He’s, like, graceful, even though he’s a beast,” I said, thinking of what Oliver’s director had said, about him being too graceful. If Oliver were graceful, I thought, why not lean into that attribute, make it an essential part of the yeti’s character, rather than trying to erase it entirely? Why not exploit that inconsistency, make him less of a Neanderthal and more like this beautifully dressed beast?

“Exactly,” said Benna, as though she were confirming my thoughts. “I think that’s what’s missing from the yeti costume—the beauty and the grace. He’s fearsome and maybe ugly, but I think the costume will be better if there’s more tension. Are there opportunities for more moments of beauty in the design of a terrible creature?”

Benna turned the video back on, this time with sound, and was immediately interrupted by her walkie-talkie going off. She retreated into her office, and the French came through the speakers, and I listened hard and caught a few words. I was surprised by how much I’d liked speaking in French with Touchstone that day in the Lily Pad; it had me wishing that there were space in my senior year schedule to take three languages, Spanish and French and Latin, even though my schedule was crammed with all the senior electives I could take.

“Did you know that French doesn’t have any words that start with w?” I said to Phoebe.

“Really?” said Phoebe.

“There’s wagon, but it’s pronounced like v. Everything else is imported from another language. Like Wi-Fi. Webcam.”

“Do you speak French?” Phoebe said.

“No, I take Spanish. We did some French in middle school. I just remembered that. I thought it was interesting.”

“Huh,” said Phoebe. “Why do you suppose that is? The w thing?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Knock, knock,” we heard, and in walked Oliver Teller. Jacques threaded himself between Oliver’s legs and mewed pathetically. “Do you need attention?” Oliver asked, and bent to scratch the cat’s chin.