The next day, Owen did not join Claire for breakfast. She waited for a half-hour, then made herself two pieces of toast and ate them with a lonely frown. She wasn't sure why Owen refused to come down, but she had a feeling it was her fault, somehow. She expected as much. It was only a matter of time before this happened. She was used to the inevitable deterioration of her relationships, even ones that should have lasted forever. She didn't want to believe that it would happen with Owen, but even someone as desperate for affection as him managed to get sick of her.

Unless . . .

Oh, god. What if something was wrong with him? What if he was sick? What if he had died in his sleep?

Claire flung her toast across the room for no apparent reason, then bolted down the hall and tramped up the staircase, breathing heavily. She skittered over to Owen's room and banged furiously on the door.

"Owen?!"

There was a woozy moo from inside.

"Claire? . . . What's wrong? . . ."

"I don't know! Are you sick? Are you hurt?"

"I . . . I'm not feeling well."

Claire tried the door, but it was locked. She grabbed a candlestick from a nearby table and bashed the handle off. When she kicked open the door, she saw Owen lying on his bed belly-down, sheets wrapped around every part of him but his face. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and the area beneath them was dark. Claire put her hand over her mouth and fell on top of him. He lowed fearfully.

"Claire, don't touch me!"

"What's wrong?!"

He gulped.

"I'm just a little . . . sick."

She felt his forehead.

"With what?"

"That's not important. We'll have to cancel our lessons for today. I won't be able to- What are you doing?"

She began to uncover him, running her hand down his side.

"You're warm all over . . . Your plates are flushed . . ."

Owen pried her arm away with his horn, then pulled the blanket to its previous position.

"I'm perfectly fine. Go find something to do."

Claire bit her lip.

"Is it bad?"

"Yes- I mean, no. I'll be fine."

She sniffed and rubbed his frill.

"What's going on, Owen? Why won't you tell me what's wrong with you?"

"Because I- Please stop doing that- Because I'm fine. It'll pass. Just give me a few hours."

Claire whimpered quietly.

"Something's terribly wrong: I can tell. Why aren't you being honest with me?"

"Trust me: it's not important."

"I'm afraid, Owen!"

"Don't be."

Her lip quivered.

"Are you . . . dying?"

He shook his head.

"No, no. It's nothing like that. Just leave me in peace. I'll be better by tomorrow."

Claire hugged his neck.

"Please don't die, Owen. You're my best friend. I can't bear to see you perish . . ."

"I'm not dying."

"Then what is it?"

"It's nothing."

She wailed and buried her face in his neck.

"You can't die, Owen, you just can't! We've only started to get to know each other!"

"I'M NOT DYING!"

"Then what's going on?" she sobbed.

Owen sighed, then took a deep breath. He rested his chin on the covers and muttered quietly.

"M-r-tng."

Claire blinked.

"What?"

"I'm . . . r-tng."

She leaned closer.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch-"

"I'm rutting, okay?!" he shouted.

Claire batted her eyes.

"Rutting? Rutting. Oh, rutting!"

After a pause, her eyes went wide.

"Oh. Oh, god."

She removed her hand from his shoulder.

"I am- I am so sorry."

He waved his foot.

"No, it's fine. I just need to be alone for it to pass."

She stood up and backed away.

"Are- are you sure?"

"Yes, well, there aren't any other dinosaurs around, and baseball hasn't been invented yet, so . . ."

Claire nodded with embarrassment and shuffled out of the room.

"Right. Okay. If you need me- Um, I mean . . . If there's anything I can do- Uh . . . What I mean to say is-"

"Goodbye, Claire," he stressed, rolling his eyes.

"Mhm. Yes. Goodbye."

She stood in the hallway for a moment before she realized that it would be best to shut the door. She did so daintily, clenching her teeth with an awkward air. Then, she pattered away from Owen's room as fast as she could.

Sure enough, she did not see him for the rest of the day. He only emerged when the sun had set, and he looked like hell when he did. His eyes were bloodshot, even more so than before, and his scales were flakey. He stumbled across the carpet like a broken puppet, then crawled up onto the sofa, taking advantage of the blazing fire. Claire hurried over to where he was lying, then sat in the crook of his body.

"Are you okay?"

"Mhm. Happens every month."

"Is it painful?"

"Not exactly."

He sighed.

"Maybe a little. I have a headache . . ."

Claire stroked the front of his frill. He closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry. Now we're a day behind schedule."

"We're not on a schedule. I'm playing this by ear," Claire lied.

"Well, I'm sorry I wasted your day, in any case. If I had known this was about to happen, I would have warned you so you could plan something fun for yourself."

"I walked through the garden."

"That's nice."

"Mhm. I checked for special flowers, but there weren't any."

There was a long silence. Claire took a deep breath.

"Are you ready to tell me why you need them so much?"

"I wish I could, but like I said before, they're important, and that's all you need to know."

"Hm. Will you ever tell me?"

"I hope so."

He swished his tail, then let his head drop.

"Sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For hoping."

Claire didn't understand what he was getting at, but he seemed really upset about something. That and his worn-out appearance made him a sorry sight, indeed. Claire rubbed his snout, then looked over her shoulder to find something to start a conversation. Her eyes landed on the massive shelves that lined the walls.

"You have a lot of books here. Do you ever read them?"

"Sometimes. Mostly, my mother read them to me, but I learned to read on my own as well."

"Ah, so you did have a mother!"

"Mhm. Do you ever read books?"

"Sure, I do. At least, I would . . . if I could afford them."

She stood up and made her way to the nearest shelf. Many of the books seemed to be in poor condition. There were pages torn out of The Adventures of Pinocchio, and The Frog Prince was nearly worn beyond recognition. Claire settled on a copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream. When she returned to the sofa, Owen's face fell.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing," he muttered, "I'm just not particularly fond of this one."

"Well, I can find something else-"

"No, it's fine. I can deal with it."

He did not "deal with it", however. It wasn't so much that he seemed foul about her choice, per se, but he remained gloomy during her entire narration. His lack of enthusiasm forced Claire to stop halfway through.

"For goodness' sake, Owen, this is supposed to be a comedy. Laugh a little."

"I don't find it very funny."

"Why not? It's cheerful, lighthearted, everyone gets married at the end . . ."

"Not everyone."

He let out a slow breath when she gave him a puzzled look.

"It just seems unfair that these fairies get their jollies from teasing innocent people. What did they ever do to deserve it?"

"Oh, come on. You're over-analyzing it. It's just a bit of fun . . ."

"Not for the people caught up in it all."

Claire shrugged dismissively.

"Well, everything gets sorted in the end."

"If only that were true."

He gave a doleful rumble.

"Even if things work out eventually, you're still missing a good chunk of your life. All those years you could have been spending among friends and family are just . . . gone."

"It was only one night, Owen," Claire said softly.

He gulped.

"Oh . . . You're right. Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

He rested his chin on the red fabric, staring into the fire. Slowly, Claire lifted his head and slid it onto her lap, where she began to rub his snout.

"It's okay, Owen. I don't blame you for not liking it. I'll choose something better, next time."

He nodded almost imperceptibly, then closed his eyes. Claire continued to run her hand over his muzzle.

"Owen . . . it wasn't anyone's fault. The fairies were just doing mischief, and . . . Well, you know how it is. At least Bottom had a good time . . ."

"But it had to end eventually. He thought he'd spend the rest of his life with the person he loved, but in the end, he was left wondering if it had even happened at all. Everything that made him happy was taken from him, and the best parts of his life seemed like nothing more than a dream."

"But they were real . . ."

"No. Reality is dying alone. Reality is being punished for a crime you didn't commit. Reality is living an unhappy life because of what you are."

"Maybe. But we don't have to do it alone."

"The people we love will leave us, in the end."

Claire kissed his forehead.

"Love remains, even after death. Don't give up hope, Owen. We can all learn to love."

Ellie, I'm worried. Why aren't you answering me?