Back today, I texted Phoebe. Then it’s all yeti all the time.

Don’t text and drive, she said.

I won’t, I said, and I put my phone on do not disturb.

Two hours and change later, I arrived back at the Lily Pad. Broken window aside, the cabin remained in its state of chaos from the other night. Though the glass had been swept up and the dishes had been done (all credit to Jess Orlando and Ros, apparently), the furniture was still arranged to accommodate the dinner party, the table still laid with the frog blanket. The plants looked unhappy, wilting, near death; I didn’t know whether they could be saved with some aggressive watering.

In the center of it all was Touchstone, standing on a ladder in front of where the window once was, trying to rig some sort of sail across the opening—though he mostly appeared to be cursing and struggling.

“Hey,” I called. “You need a hand?”

No sooner had I spoken than Touch’s system gave out; the sailcloth dropped, leaving the back of the cabin totally exposed to the elements.

“Yes,” he said. He looked relieved to see me—maybe even grateful, though perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part. “Please.”

We worked quickly and efficiently. I held the ladder; with my hammer, he drove in nails and tied rope to them. One by one, we strung the sail up, like a giant curtain that fluttered in the breeze. We stepped back to admire our work. The sail looked archaic, like it wouldn’t have been out of place on a pirate ship.

“What is that?” I asked.

“I got it from the prop closet,” he said. “I asked to borrow it; don’t worry. They did The Tempest last year. There’s a shipwreck in the beginning. This was part of the staging for that. I actually managed to get it up by myself the first time, if you can believe that.”

We collapsed around the dinner table. It was strange to not see outside; the cabin was so much smaller and dimmer. Not only that, but now I didn’t know where to look. Looking at Touchstone certainly wasn’t an option, and to look at the sail was a horrible reminder of how the night had ended. I settled finally on my cuticles, worrying the skin where it met the nail.

“Was Henry mad?” I said.

“You think I’m the one who’s going to tell Henry?” Touchstone said.

“I—uh—no. No, I guess not,” I said.

Touchstone nodded, like I’d given the right answer.