I tried hard not to laugh. Really, I did. We’d already gotten off on the wrong foot and then kept walking on it for a while, but in spite of all of that he actually did seem sort of nice, sort of normal, almost, and the last thing I needed was to upset the delicate, tenuous balance that existed between us—

But I just couldn’t help it. I collapsed into a fit of giggles.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s okay,” he said miserably.

“You’re not the yeti! You’re not.”

“Oh, I am,” he said. “It is funny. You know, originally, I wanted to play a different kind of role this summer. I’m always the villain. I wanted to prove I could do something other than brood and punch people, and then instead I do this favor for my agent, and I get cast as a literal monster. I don’t even have any lines. At least not in English…”

I was laughing harder. “Stop.”

“It’s true,” he said, and he chuckled a little bit, too, surprised at himself. “Like, it’s a big part, I’m onstage the whole time, but everything written in the play is either like, ook, or a grunt.…”

I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye.

“And the director keeps telling me I have to find my ‘inner beast.’ She’s said it now like six times.…”

I was totally gone now, the world a watery blur, and much to my surprise and delight, Oliver was laughing right along with me. His laugh was different than it was on TV—on the show, he had kind of a villainous huh-HA, a laugh that always sounded like a victory lap, like he’d won something and was rubbing your face in it. Now, though, he was just straight-up giggling—the sound was so goofy, so bouncing, and it made me think of curlicues and ringlets, twisty rainbow lollipops, bags of shoestring licorice I used to drool over at the farmers’ market. This laugh—his actual laugh—suited him so much better.

There was a horrible yell at the door that startled me back to myself. Jacques the cat had emerged from his Cave of Melancholy, no doubt disturbed by all the levity, and was now sitting a few feet from us, screaming at us in disapproval. His teeth seemed sharper than they had at the start of the week.

“Who’s this?” Oliver asked.

“Don’t touch him—he’ll bite your face off—”

But Oliver was already crouched on the ground with an extended fist, clicking his tongue softly at Jacques. My hands flew to my face; I saw the headlines take shape in my mind’s eye—YOUNG STAR MEETS TRAGIC DEATH AT THE CLAWS OF JOY-HATING FELINE; COSTUME APPRENTICE BARELY ESCAPES WITH HER LIFE—but a strange thing happened: Jacques actually rubbed his head against Oliver’s fist.