“Can you walk?” Phoebe said.

Oliver took a few steps. I’d found in the woods a single rusted bell. It rang when he walked, but it did not sound joyful. It sounded mournful. Eerie. Foreboding.

“I’m getting chills,” said Phoebe.

Oliver stood in front of the mirror, giving himself a careful look. He seemed the perfect mix of beastly and graceful; a big Muppety monster who loved to decorate his coat with treasures he found in the forest.

“It’s funny. I feel like I get him more now. Like—the loneliness. And the human parts. There’s, like, this sweetness to him.” He admired himself, turning this way and that in the mirror. Jacques darted out from Benna’s office, hissed, and turned and ran.

“That’s how you know it’s going to work,” Oliver said.

“It was all Phoebe,” I said.

“That’s, like, 75 percent true,” Phoebe said. “But I had a really good sous-chef.”

“You did a good job,” Oliver said, looking and speaking only to Phoebe.

“Okay—Celia—I think we need something on this hind quarter—and maybe more pom-poms over here? Oliver, how mobile can you be? Like—how fast can you go? Can you move your arms? Can you twirl?”

Oliver attempted a clumsy pirouette; the abandoned bird’s nest that I’d found in the woods fell from his shoulder; I hustled to retrieve it, cradled it in my hands.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit,” Oliver said.

“No—it’s fine! It’s fine,” said Phoebe. “That’s what we were testing. It’s an easy fix.”

“And honestly, if they fall off onstage, it kind of works?” I said. “Like, he just leaves a trail of breadcrumbs wherever he goes.”

“The director’s going to want to kill me,” Phoebe said.

“I honestly don’t think so,” Oliver said. “I think she’s going to be psyched.”

Oliver went to change out of the costume, and Phoebe brought the bird’s nest back to her station. Even across the room, I could feel her staring knowingly at me.

What, I mouthed.

Talk to him, she mouthed back.

And say what, I mouthed back.

Literally anything, said Phoebe.

Oliver emerged, holding the pelt in his arm, like something skinned.

“I can take that,” I said.

He placed it into my arms gingerly. It was heavy and warm. If there was a time to say anything, it would have been then. But no words came to me; all I could think about was what he’d said to me the last time I’d seen him—how I’d treated him like a prop. I doubted he ever wanted to speak to me again after that.

“Thanks,” he said. “Well. See you.”

I ferried the costume back to Phoebe and went back to my yarn-covered station, ready to immerse myself in crafting yeti pom-poms.

“Dude,” she said finally, “what are you even doing?”

“Pom-poms?” I said.