Bad Break

(February 28-March 1, 2015)

Against Wendy's advice, Manly Dan—freshly out of his cast, a little earlier than the doctor would have liked, and stumping around on a cane—had insisted on taking the boys on a weekend camping trip. At least Wendy and Junior had talked him out of the high ridges he favored, and instead they were going to Bullock River Bottom, where there would be no cross-country hiking and they could do some winter fishing—steelhead season was open, and the river usually furnished good fishing grounds. Even more important, they'd be within cell-phone range, and in an emergency an ambulance from Madras could pull right up to the campground and could have Dan in a hospital within thirty minutes. Dan and his three boys took off on Friday afternoon.

Starting early the next morning and without the guys underfoot, Wendy had been left to her own devices, so she had done her weekly thorough cleaning and had caught up on the laundry before twelve-thirty, when she knocked off to have some lunch. She planned to drive over to the Shack later in the afternoon to have dinner with the Ramirezes. She washed up the dishes and was about to call Soos when her own phone chimed. It was Mabel.

"Hi, Mabes," she said. "'Sup?"

"Wendy!" Mabel's voice was panicky, and the signal was fluttering, making her hard to hear. "Dipper's been rushed to the hospital!"

Wendy's heart leaped in panic. "What? What happened? Where is he?"

She heard something that might have been "Piedmont," and then lost the signal altogether. Frantically, Wendy punched in Mabel's number, got a "number unavailable" recording, and then tried Dipper's, which went to voicemail.

Instead of going to the Shack, she drove—at reckless speed—to the McGucket house, didn't knock but barged in through the front door (the chair robot recognized her and said, "Welcome, Miss Corduroy") and rushed up to the second floor. She nearly ran head-on into Sheila Pines. "Quick," Wendy said, "where's Stan?"

"What's wrong? He's down in the TV room, watching—"

"I gotta tell him something!" Wendy ran back downstairs, with Sheila following close behind, but more slowly. The television room adjoined the big library. Stan, in jeans and Hawaiian shirt, sat stretched out in a recliner, watching a poker championship tournament.

"This bum!" he said. "Thinks he can play Texas Hold 'Em—Wendy! What's wrong?" he jumped up.

"I just got a call from Mabel," she said. "Dipper's been taken to the hospital. Lost the connection before I could learn any details and I can't get either of them on the phone."

"Sheila," Stan said, "go lay out some good pants, a dress shirt and tie, and get me that dark gray jacket." He fished his cell phone from the shirt pocket and punched in a number. He grunted, hung up, and tried another. "Wanda and Alex ain't answerin'. I'm gonna drive to the airport and see if I can't catch the three-fifteen down to Oakland."

"I'm coming with you!" Wendy said.

He grinned at her. "I'll cover the ticket. I hate to fly alone!"

They left Sheila, promising to call her with any news, and asking her to call them if she heard anything. "Wanna drive the Stanleymobile?" Stan asked as they hurried out.

"You don't want to drive?"

"You're younger, got better reactions, and can go faster without gettin' busted." He tossed her the keys.

During the drive to the airport—normally two hours and a bit, but they made it in considerably less time—Stan constantly tried Mabel's number as well as those of Mr. and Mrs. Pines, without luck. They parked, rushed into the terminal, and Stan grabbed two tickets on the flight. They cleared Security without much problem—no luggage—and got to the gate three minutes before the jetway door would have been closed.

Wendy fidgeted during the whole flight. She and Stan had to take what they could get. He was midway up the aircraft, port side, aisle seat staring at the back-of-the-seat monitor ahead of him (he disliked heights and flying and kept trying to pretend he was back home, watching Smart Guys, the program the airline was running), and she was in the third row from the end, window seat. Two tweens, girls about nine and eleven and looking like they might be sisters, sat in the adjoining seats in her row. They ignored her, both intent on puzzle books. Their mother, in the seat across the aisle, kept glancing at them, but they behaved.

Wendy leaned her forehead on the cold window. Her breath fogged it. "Please be all right, please be all right," she kept whispering, like a litany. At one point she abruptly had to jump up and move past the little girls to get to the ridiculous airplane lavatory, not to use it but to throw up. She rinsed her mouth and retook her seat, miserable and scared.

The instant they touched down and started to taxi to the gate, Wendy saw Stan's hand waving his cell phone. He traded hands and gave her a thumbs-up, which at least made her feel a little bit better.

She was uncharacteristically rude as soon as the plane came to a stop, jumping up and threading past other passengers in the packed aisle to get to Stan. "What is it?" she said as soon as she stood next to him.

"He's gonna be OK. Piedmont Keslering, room 312. Busted leg or something."

"What is it with legs?" Wendy wailed.

They got out with the flow of the passengers, then sprinted to the auto-rental desk, where Stan rented a Miyagi Nukite—which wouldn't have been Wendy's choice. They picked the small white vehicle up in the lot, and Stan, appalled, said, "This is a car?"

"It's a compact," Wendy said.

Stan crammed himself into the driver's seat and drove them out of the airport, then pulled into a gas station. "You drive."

"Dude," Wendy said, "you have to be twenty-five—"

"You just drive careful," Stan corrected. He racked the passenger seat as far back as it would go and squeezed himself into the little car. He hurriedly phoned Sheila just to tell her it looked as if Dipper was OK, and then as Wendy started the engine, he said, "Wait, let me get the maps app up on this fershlugginer phone."

With a little difficulty he got the directions, and the phone cheerfully told them to take this turn, that turn, and then look for an exit. It would have been a breeze without the traffic. At last, though, they pulled off the freeway and saw a tall tan block of a building framed against the golden light of the setting sun. "Bet that's it," Stan said.

It was. At five-fifty-seven they pulled into the lot and parked, and then they hurried into the hospital.

They took the elevator to the third floor and Mabel saw them at once—she had been walking down the hall toward the nurse's station, just to the left as you got off the elevator. She ran to embrace Stan and then Wendy. Her face was red with anxiety or maybe anger. "That damn bastard bumped him on purpose!" she said, making a nurse shoot her a startled look.

"Shh, quieter, Pumpkin. What happened?" Stan asked.

"Where's the room?" Wendy asked.

"Way down there. Come on, we'll talk and walk." With a visible effort, Mabel turned her vocal volume down a couple of notches: "Dip's been given the 200-meter dash this season, and this rotten big guy was a little in the lead halfway to the finish, but Dip was passing him, and the guy deliberately hip-bumped him hard and Dip lost his footing and went sprawling and the runner in the next lane couldn't stop and tangled with Dip—that guy was OK, but Dipper sprained his left ankle pretty bad. They thought it might be broken, but it's not. Here's his room on the left."

Mr. and Mrs. Pines were in it, standing near the bed, and a heavy, muscular man with short hair nearly blocked the door. He wore a purple and white Piedmont High track jacket ("Coach" was embroidered right below the school name on his chest) and turned around as Mabel said, "This is Mr. Dinson, Dipper's coach. This is our great-uncle Stanley Pines and our family friend Wendy Corduroy."

From inside the room, behind Dinson, came Dipper's slightly woozy voice: "Wendy? Is Wendy here?"

"'Scuse me," Wendy said, squeezing past the coach. She smiled. "Hey, Mr. Pines, Mrs. Pines. Dip! Heard you got hurt, man. You doin' OK, buddy?"

"I feel like I'm floating," he complained. His hair was plastered down with sweat, and the Big-Dipper birthmark showed clear on his forehead. "They gave me shots."

Alex Pines reached across the bed and shook Wendy's hand. "They had to correct an ankle misalignment, painful business, so they put him out. He just got back to the room a few minutes ago."

"Can I run?" Dipper asked. He sounded as if he were just waking up, or just going to sleep.

"Not for a little while, dear," his mother said.

Dipper frowned. "Where am I? Are we in Gravity Falls?"

Wendy took his hand and squeezed it. You're in the hospital in Piedmont, Dip. You getting this?

-Yeah, loud and clear. You came all this way?

"Look at his face," Mr. Pines said, sounding relieved. "He's sure glad to see you!"

"Yeah," Stan said. "I hadda bring her along, ya know. I was so shook up I didn't trust myself to drive, but lucky for me, Wendy was handy. She's an ace driver, you know."

-I'm so glad to see you. You look like an angel. I didn't die, did I?

No, Dip, you're just doped up a little.

"Dip is doped," Dipper murmured, giggling weirdly.

A nurse came in. "I'm going to have to shoo you out for a few minutes. We've got some medical things to do."

"Will he get to go home?" Mrs. Pines asked.

"Probably not until tomorrow morning," the nurse said. "The doctor will have to release him."

After a stop in the women's room, Wendy joined the others in the waiting room, where Mabel seemed to be tearing into Coach Dinson: "Why did you let that big jerk get away with hurting my brother?" she demanded.

"Mabel," Dinson said, "the Crossville coach told me that Wayne Wildon's been sanctioned. He's been cut from the team for intentionally fouling, and his win's been rescinded. What else do you want?"

"String him up!" Mabel said.

Mr. Pines put his hand on her shoulder. "Come on, it's not all that bad," he said. "Dipper's just got a sprain. It's not like he's broken a leg."

"How long will it be before he can run again?" Mrs. Pines asked the coach.

"I'm not a doctor," Dinson said. "But typically, with a bad ankle sprain, six weeks to two months, at least."

"He gonna be off the team?" Stan asked. "That track team means a lot to Dipper."

"He means a lot to us!" Dinson said, sounding almost fierce. "No, of course he won't be off the team. He's still team captain and assistant coach. And he ought to be back in competition before the last meets in May."

"There goes the state championship, though," Mabel said in a gloomy tone. She glanced at Wendy. "Dip's taken two first places and one second in the two hundred meter!" she added proudly.

"He'll get his running form back," Dinson said. "The doctor calls it a second-grade sprain, which means some torn ligaments. He'll have to wear a walking boot—that's a special kind of brace for this type of sprain—and probably he'll be on crutches for a couple of weeks, too. Then he'll have therapy. We'll have to see how it goes, but I hope he can start to practice again by mid-April. I'm thinking of putting him back on the hundred-meter when he's ready to run."

Mr. Pines said, "Well, I know he'll stick to the physical therapy routine. He loves being on the track team. I'm going to get a cup of coffee—I was keyed up all day and now I'm about to crash. I need a caffeine boost. Bring anyone anything?"

They all declined, but as he walked past her, he surprised Wendy by saying, "Sure, Wendy, you can walk along with me. Come on, I know the way."

Uncertain about what he'd meant, she followed him down the corridor. "There's a coffee and vending room at the end, past the nurses' station and near the elevator," he said. When they reached the little room, he looked around and said quietly, but in a friendly tone, "Good, nobody here. What's the deal with you and Dipper, Wendy?"

"Uh—we're friends," she said, feeling her cheeks getting warm. "We're like best friends."

He smiled at her. "And a little bit more?"

The warm smile disarmed her. "Well, yeah. A little bit more," she admitted. "But there's the age thing—"

In a kind voice, Mr. Pines interrupted: "Did you know that Wanda is two years older than I am? Don't mention that to her!" He chuckled. "She doesn't like me telling people."

She felt like weeping with relief. "No, I didn't know that. I was so—so worried about Dipper—I had to come down to, to see him—"

He hugged her. She was very nearly as tall as he was. "Shh, shh. Listen to me now. It's all right. I've been thinking for some time that you and Dipper had something special going on. It's OK. You're not going to do anything stupid with him, are you?"

She shook her head. "No. We made a pact. No, you know, no fooling around. But—yeah, we really care for each other, Mr. Pines. I—I guess—oh, hell, we're in love."

Mr. Pines still held her in a fatherly way—she supposed, anyhow. She didn't know for sure, since Dan Corduroy wasn't a hugger. Dipper's dad patted her back. "Under the circumstances, I think you should call me 'Alex,' at least when we're alone." He broke the hug and stood holding her hands in his, smiling at her. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen. Eighteen in May."

"See, Wanda and I had the impression you were older, but two years and a bit, well, that's not so bad. But, yes, Dipper's fifteen, all full of hormones and angst. I remember what that was like. Just tell me seriously now, and don't be afraid: Do you think this is going to be the real thing?"

Now she was weeping a little. "God, yes, I hope so!"

"Mm-hm. If you're sure, that's it, it's set in stone. Because I know Dipper, and he won't change, not ever. All right, here, take this, it's clean." He handed her a handkerchief. Softly, he said, "I don't think Wanda needs to know quite yet, Wendy. My lips are sealed. Now, since this is Dipper, I'm sure there's a plan."

She wiped her eyes and nodded. "He means to tell you and his mom when he turns eighteen. Ask for your blessing, and we'll either get married and go to the same college, or at least, you know, if you guys think that's too fast, we'll get engaged if you tell us to wait. But we're going to the same college, and, well—"

"But you two will move in together when you go off to college," Alex said calmly. "That's not so unusual these days, and even Wanda would come around to it for Dipper's sake if nothing else. You'll be OK. But trust me on this: You have to be sure that you want the man in your life to be Dipper."

"I am sure," she said. "I've been sure for a while now."

"Do Stan and Ford know about your feelings for Mason?"

Now she had to laugh a little. "Couldn't hardly hide it from them, me and Dip are together so much. Yeah, they know. They approve."

"That makes it even better," Alex said. "Wanda is immensely impressed by Ford, and I think Stan could talk her into anything. All right, Wendy, I think we're in a good place here. Um—don't get mad, but as a dad I have to ask this: You and Dipper aren't having, um, anything, you know, serious, physical . . .."

She smiled and shook her head. "No. Really, we made a pact. I mean, well, kissing and snuggling, you know. But, no, we're not having, uh, you know, intimate relations or anything. And we won't, not for a few more years. We've held out good so far, and it won't be a problem."

"Not that it would really matter all that much to me," he said. "So long as you were careful. Wendy, I hope nothing changes. I would truly love more than anything to have you as my daughter-in-law. Let me get a cup of coffee—I don't recommend it, it's recycled battery acid, but it gave me an excuse to talk to you. You got it together?"

She nodded and smiled.

"Good, then we'll walk back." He got his coffee from the machine, dumped half of it down a small sink and overloaded the rest with powdered creamer, and then they started back down the corridor, with him asking, "So what kind of mileage are you getting now that the engine's been fully overhauled?"

And they walked in talking about Dodge Darts and automotive concerns.

Dipper was looking more himself and more aware when they came back to the room. He grinned at Wendy. "Doctor says I have to stay here overnight," he said. "Wendy, why did you come down?"

"'Cause Mabel called me, man, and said you were in the hospital. Scared me silly, 'cause the connection broke up and I didn't get why you were in here! Then I lost the phone signal completely and couldn't get her or your folks back on the line—"

"Yeah," Mabel said, a little sheepishly. "I gotta talk to Dad about that. I dropped my phone in the toilet and it doesn't seem to be the same now."

Alex said, "Wanda and I had to turn our cell phones off in the hospital, because they might interfere with—wait, what? The toilet?"

"I fished it out again!" Mabel said.

"Anyway," Wendy said, coming to Mabel's rescue, "I went and told Stan, and when he couldn't get anybody on the phone either, we decided we needed to come down 'cause all we knew was that Dipper was in the hospital, not why he was here or how bad it was."

"And I am shaky and very old," Stan said, though since his sip from the Fountain of Youth he looked late-middle-aged if that, "and because of my poor trembling hands, I asked Wendy to come along as driver."

"You couldn't have picked a better one," Alex said.

Wendy grinned. "Yeah, I helped out Stan. But, Dip, man, you're my buddy," she said, with a significant glance at Dipper, "and I just had to know what had happened to you."

They stayed until seven, and then the nurse shooed them all out, telling them that visiting hours were over. The Pines family took Wendy and Stan to dinner and then insisted on their staying over at their new house. "You won't be able to fly out until tomorrow afternoon, anyway," Alex said after checking his phone. "First flight with available seats isn't until six PM. You can help us bring Dipper home."

"Uncle Stanley can have the guest room," Mrs. Pines said. "Maybe Wendy can sleep over in Mabel's room."

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary," Alex said. "Dipper's bed is empty. We'll just change the sheets for her and she'll be more comfortable there."

"One thing," Stan said. "We didn't pack, so I'll need to go to, like, a Sprawl-Mart or something to buy some dainties."

"That's a good idea," Wendy said. "Maybe I can pick up a change of clothes, too."

First, though, Wendy called Junior and told him what had happened. "It's OK," he told her. "We won't be back until Tuesday morning early, anyhow."

"The boys will miss school on Monday!" Wendy objected.

"The fishing's good!" Junior insisted. "They ain't missin' anything important!"

Great. Wendy suspected that during the coming summer and fall, she'd spend a minimum of six months undoing Junior's bad influence.

They stopped at a Bullseye store, where Stan got his dainties and Wendy bought a change of underwear and a fresh flannel shirt, socks, and khaki jeans—and incidentally, a grumbling Alex Pines purchased a replacement cell phone for Mabel—before they drove to the Pines family's new house.

They sat around the kitchen table and talked until ten-thirty, when they turned in. Wendy, in a nightgown borrowed from Mrs. Pines (about three inches too short for her, really) felt oddly touched when she saw her fur trapper's hat on Dipper's bed. Pinned on the front flap, a small bronze medal still gleamed—a star in a circle with a number 1 etched on the star. Dipper had given that to her. It was from the first race he'd ever won.

She left the trapper's hat on the pillow beside her head and fell asleep and dreamed Dipper was there with her.

They sprang Dipper—as Grunkle Stan put it—the next day before noon. He fussed with the crutches. His left foot was encased in a black, tightly-strapped, calf-length walking boot, and from the way he winced, he was still having pain.

In the back seat, Dipper sat next to Wendy, who was wearing a new solid-black flannel shirt and khakis, and they surreptitiously held hands. Wendy telepathically asked, Are you real upset about the injury, Dip? It could've been a lot worse.

—Yeah, I guess I am. I was doing great on the track this year.

You'll do it again. Just be sure to take your physical therapy serious. Promise me you will.

—I promise, Magic Girl.

Good man, Big Dipper.

Almost as though she overheard them, Mabel said, "The big jerk Wildon who pushed you down won't be running anymore, Brobro. He got cut from the team."

"He deserved it," Mom said firmly. She always stood up for Dipper.

"So, Wendy," Mabel asked, "How's Teek?"

"He's good, he's good," Wendy said. "He comes over to the Shack about once a week, just to check in and help with odd jobs. I'll tell him you said hi the next time I see him." Somehow she sensed that the Pineses weren't aware that their daughter and her boyfriend spent so much time on the phone—when Mabel had a working one, anyway.

"Are you staying in Stanford's old house?" Mrs. Pines asked Wendy. She has a little bit of an aversion to the term "Mystery Shack," since for years she had mistakenly thought the tourist trap was a museum of scientific curiosities overseen by Dr. Stanford Pines.

Wendy answered, "For the time being. My dad broke his leg, you know, and my older brother's home to help him get around and stuff, and our house is kinda small, so I've moved into the guest room at the Shack until Dad's completely well and Junior can go back up to Washington for his own job. Plus, I'm helping Melody. Baby's due sometime in early May, so she can use a hand around the house!"

"That's so nice of you," Mrs. Pines said.

"Wendy's a good girl," Mabel said firmly.

Through their telepathic connection, Wendy told Dipper Man, I don't know that I'd put it that way.

Dipper said aloud, "Yeah, Soos depends on Wendy a lot. She's his right-hand helper."

"'Cause I trained her," Stan said.

"You're the best, Stan," Wendy told him.

Wanda Pines seemed satisfied with that. At least, she didn't ask any follow-up questions. They helped Dipper into the house, where his mom told him he'd be staying in the guest room, right across from his parents' bedroom, until he could get up and down stairs again.

"I can do that now," he protested.

"Not," his mother said firmly, "until you're off the crutches!"

Sunday seemed to go by too fast, but before Wendy and Stan had to leave, she at least got to sneak a little alone time and a shared kiss with Dipper. "You call me, now," she said. "Text every day and keep me up on how you're doing. And at least two face-times a week!"

"If I can do it without making my folks suspicious," he promised.

She kissed him again. Dude, good news. You don't have to worry about your dad. Just keep your mom happy.

—Dad knows? Wendy felt his surprise.

Pretty sure he figured it out, Dip. But he's cool with it.

His rush of relief came through their link as plainly as if she'd felt it herself. He whispered, "I can't wait until we don't have to keep it all to ourselves."

"Same here," she said. "Time will come, man. Be patient. It'll come." And they kissed again.

In a cheap motel room outside of Los Angeles, a man who now called himself "Mr. Black" sat at a rickety desk and—as he did once daily now—sketched out on a sheet of copy paper a circle with a twin boundary. He drew an inner circle and then sketched in spokes that divided the figure up into ten wedges. In red ink, he drew an odd kind of drawing—a single ancient rune—in the outer compartment of each wedge. Every rune was different.

The third figure, the rune that meant "ice" and the next one that meant "fir tree" seemed oddly resistant as he drew them in. He used a quill pen. The blood he used as ink was thick and red and came from his own veins. Frowning, he added the next rune—Mystery—and it gave no resistance at all until the pen caught on the last stroke, and the next one, Crescent, at first felt just a little strange. Ah, but the next—Comet—nearly ruined the nib of his quill. He had to drag the figure onto the paper.

"Three close?" he asked himself. "Two both close and far? How can that be?"

The remaining ones—gave him nothing.

Leaning forward, Mr. Black dangled a silver dagger—not a real one, but a three-inch-long miniature—over the paper at the end of a looped black thread. It was braided from human hair, that thread—in fact, hair from the now-deceased acquaintance who had been the real Mr. Black, and whose identification the man in the motel room now carried and whose name he had taken. For his purposes, real human hair was always better than silk, cotton, or any other substance.

The dagger-pendulum circled the Zodiac. Then, without warning, it trined—meaning it had selected three runes and made a triangular orbit just among those three. Ice. Fir tree. Comet. He thought at first there was a bob toward Crescent, but that faded out. He wondered if he had made a mistake copying the rune. He had taken the symbols from a thousand-year-old stone, one side of it much abraded. They were in no particular order, but they did not have to be. The only requirement as that they all be present.

He spoke a spell of finding the members of the trine.

And with startling suddenness, almost with eagerness, the dagger swung horizontal, pointing, straining at the braded-hair tether.

It stood out stiffly, defying gravity. With his free hand, Mr. Black pulled what looked like a pocket watch from his vest pocket, opened it with his thumb, placed it on the table, and rotated it. It was a brass-bound compass. It showed that the pendulum was pointing nearly northwest.

Ice, Fir Tree, and Comet were closer than he'd thought—not Washington State or Canada, even, but certainly somewhere in California, somewhere possibly near San Francisco, or at least in that vicinity. Monterey, perhaps, or San Jose.

But—he needed all ten together! It was essential to capture them all in the same place. Why were the others not there? In the past the Zodiac had always come together to defy the darkness. Were they unaware? Surely not.

Three corrupted would be a means to attack them all. Mr. Black's impulse was to hurry to San Francisco the fastest way he could—if he could remain inconspicuous.

But no, he decided he would wait and test again. It was possible the ten were gathering in San Francisco or nearby. That area was a known hotbed of occultism. Perhaps he could find his victims sooner than he'd thought.

He could wait.

He would wait.

It was always better to let the victims gather themselves, not to chase them, not to hunt them down.

So—he would check again tomorrow. Maybe by that time more, maybe even all ten would be near!

Yes, he would wait.

He was doomed to disappointment, though.

Dipper felt frustrated when his mother refused to let Mr. Pines drive him to the airport to see Wendy and Stan off, but Mabel joked with him, telling Dipper it wouldn't be all that long until he saw his grunkles and his friends again. Dipper had donated a scuffed leatherette laptop case that he no longer used, and Wendy and Stan had packed their dirty clothes in it—though Wendy had insisted on separate plastic trash bags to keep Stan's dainties separate from hers—and that was their only luggage.

They checked the rental car back in—Wendy drove it to within a half-mile of the airport, and a disgruntled Stan, growling about having to be a contortionist to fit behind the wheel, had finished the run in plenty of time to board the plane. This time they had first-class seats and sat together—Stan on the aisle because being near the window nauseated him.

After they had climbed to cruising altitude, Stan, his white-knuckled hands clutching the seat arms, said quietly, "So Alex told me he knows about you and Dip."

"Yeah," Wendy said. "He kinda knew already. I didn't think we were bein' all that obvious about it."

Stan grinned, though his complexion had become a little green as the plane banked. "Not you so much, but anybody who knows him can read Dip like a book. Except his mom! Wanda dotes on him and thinks he'd tell her if anything was brewing romance-wise. She don't understand there's a stubborn gene in the Pines family. I got it and Dip has it. OK, so Alex is good with the idea of the two of you gettin' together eventually. It's good to hold back the news from Dipper's mom for a while, though. Just make sure that you behave yourselves around Wanda, is all."

"Behave ourselves just around her?" Wendy asked with a smile. "Not when Dip and I are, you know, alone?"

"Hey," Stan said, "it's your life. Look at the mess I made of mine for thirty-odd years! I got no right to give advice."

"Stan Pines," Wendy said, "you've been a good friend to me. A second dad. You and Dip and Mabel, man—you straightened me out when I was just a lazy, bored girl on the edge of makin' some bad decisions and serious mistakes with my life. Don't you ever tell me you can't give me advice!"

"Aww, you're gonna make me get somethin' in my eye," Stan said. "Seriously, kiddo, I can't wait for the time that you're my, what, great-niece-in law? Is that a thing?"

"It will be," Wendy said, "when you get to be my grunkle-in-law."

That got a warm chuckle from Stan.

The rest of the flight was smooth.

The End