A good theory requires a good hypothesis. Or, several good hypotheses. And, of course, a good analysis of good hypotheses backed by good data from a good experiment. Or... several of all of those things all at once. Alan held his head. He couldn't tell if his headache was from the lumpy cot or the room full of cleaning supplies or from his confusion and lack of direction, but he was coming to a realization that happened to coincide with the pain in his forehead. Alan had been in such a rush to come to Beach City and discover something that he never bothered to figure out what he should be trying to discover.

But Alan did know where to start. Something he was familiar with. Something that had taken up four long years of his life. Something that he had poured countless hours of analysis and data collection and coffee-soaked nights of revision and refinement into. Alan groaned as he exited his supply-closet-turned-home, hoping some fresh air would clear his head.

I guess I'll go print my doctoral dissertation.

Except Alan didn't have a printer. He groaned again.

I guess I'll go find where I can print things for...

Alan checked his wallet and groaned a third time.

...for free.

As Alan cracked his joints in the cool morning air, he noticed that Greg's van was running. Curious and more than a bit chilly, he went over to investigate. He found Greg sticking out the back, humming happily to himself and packing something.

Is that a... picnic basket? I guess the most direct route would be to ask.

"Is that a picnic basket?"

"Wa-woahnow hey!" Greg blurted with a jump, turning to meet his ambusher. "Oh, kid, it's just you! You ah- haha, well, you can't sneak up on people like that, ya know? Almost gave me a heart attack."

Greg finished stuffing in a beach blanket that was clearly too large for the basket's remaining space. "Anyway, yeah, it's a picnic basket. Now that you're here to look after the 'wash, I'm havin' a beach day with my son!"

The door to Greg's van closed with finality. The beach day was going to happen, regardless of how unsure Alan was that he could run the car-wash by himself.

"A-are you sure I'm ready for this? I mean, I paid attention all yesterday, but handling all this by myself on my second day is-"

"Ah hey don't even worry about it! All you gotta do is wash cars, take people's money, and make sure nobody leaves this place sad or whatever! Besides, most days are slow. You'll have tons of time to worry about it then."

Greg gave Alan a heavy, reassuring pat on the shoulders with his large hands, making Alan buckle a little under the weight of his geniality.

"Well, if you're sure... then I shall man this establishment to my fullest," Alan committed, standing as tall as he could so early in the morning.

"'Atta boy!" Greg encouraged, meeting his statement with a large, friendly grin. "If you need somethin' my number's on the counter."

As Greg stepped behind the wheel of his van, Alan remembered why he had wandered over.

"Oh, um, mist- uh, Greg. Do you know where I might print something in this town? For free?"

"Hmm," Greg mused, tapping his bushel of a beard in an exaggerated thinking motion, "well there's nothin' in the shop, but I think the library's got somethin' you can use."

Greg put the van in gear and started rolling away from the car-wash. "Just make sure you're here during business hours!" Greg yelled in farewell.

Alan went back to the main office and produced a fold-out map of Beach City from behind the counter.

The car-wash officially opens at ten, and it's currently eight-oh-six. That leaves me one-hundred-and-four minutes to finish this plan, walk to the library, print my dissertation, and walk back. Now, it's a mile and a half to the library from here, so I'll need-

Alan paused. Was he really incapable of printing something at a public library without a plan?

I'll just... go there. That's a good plan.

The library looked new. Newer that any of the buildings Alan passed on the way there, at least. Not that any other building looked particularly old, but you could tell just by looking that the library was a newer. The windows were just a hint too spotless, the pavement just a bit too smooth and uniform, and the doorknob just a tad too polished and unmarred.

As he entered the small foyer, Alan was greeted by a most unusual sight. Behind the main desk hung a large, glossy poster of the Mayor, glaring down with a forced smile at all the library patrons and brandishing a large "Read Books!" banner. But the poster wasn't the unusual part. Right next to it, like some adorning statue to a medieval tapestry, was the mayor himself, smiling nervously from his post and brandishing his own "Re-elect Mayor Dewey!" banner. Drawn in by bizarre fascination, Alan caught the mayor's eye and immediately regretted it.

"You! You there! Welcome Beach City's brand new Dewey Library! Named after the magnanimous sponsor who graciously approved of its construction."

Alan stared. Am I supposed to say something back?

The Mayor stared back. "It's... me. I'm the one who sanctioned the building zone." Dewey pointed to his own banner in emphasis, underlining his name several times with his finger.

"Did beach city not have a library before?" Alan pondered out loud. The Mayor jumped at the chance to finally unveil his talking points.

"Sure it did! But not since the, uh, giant slug thing happened," the Mayor said, hurrying past the last part and almost causing Alan to miss it entirely. "But now it has one again! It's all part of my 'Keep Beach City Reading' campaign. Because what use is a voting machine," Dewey paused for effect, and Alan almost walked away on the spot, "if you can't read it!"

The Mayor finished with as forced of a smile as he could manage, and Alan gave him a small, nervous chuckle in the hopes that it would sate his appetite for voter interaction. Instead of staying to find out whether it had, Alan turned on his heel and marched quickly out of the Mayor's sight.

Wait, giant slug thing? Maybe I should go back and-

Alan bumped into something with a small "oof!" Something tall, firm, and very turquoise. As Alan tumbled ungracefully to the ground, he noticed that whatever he bumped into hadn't moved at all. Also that it was a she and that she had very turquoise shoes. Alan's gaze rose, finding that she had an entire yellow-and-turquoise ensemble on as well, as if she had just left a dance recital and had rushed to the library without changing. Finally, he met her eyes; a pair of turquoise pupils looking down in mild surprise and sitting below a neatly tapered shock of peach hair.

"Oh, sorry, um... sir. Are you okay?"

Alan's gaze fixed on the two most obvious features of the dancer's face. The first was her long, pointed nose, which Alan was confident he should not ask about. The second was the smooth, white oval sitting on her brow, though Alan was unsure whether the feature would be more or less appropriate to ask about.

"Sir?"

The address came across in a crisp, flat tone, as if the girl was quickly losing interest in partaking in the social exchange of an apology. Alan realized how ridiculous he must have looked sitting on the ground and staring up for as long as he had. He stood himself up with a wobbly motion.

"I'm uh- yes, I'm fine. And, uh, sorry! Yes, sorry. I wasn't really looking where I was walking and I... crashed. Into you."

"Yes, well, perhaps in the future you should look where you are walking to prevent such unfortunate mishaps."

The girl walked gracefully past him towards the foyer, arms laden with books. Alan caught a glimpse at several of their spines; Introduction to Biology, Electricity and Magnetism, For Kids!, and American History for Dummies. It raised a brow.

Is she teaching someone or something?

Before the girl was out of earshot, Alan remembered that he was there to print and that he had no idea where the printer was.

"Oh, um, excuse me! Would you happen to know where the printer is? I'm new here and-"

"Oh, that? Humans have such odd ways of transcribing information. Mechanically splatting globs of liquid pigment onto sheets of paper? Ugh. But, if you insist... the printer is in the northeast corner of the building. Follow the aisle on philology and linguistics until you reach the history section, then take a left. It should be sitting on a desk next to a stack of paper and a monitor."

Without any further acknowledgment the girl walked briskly away, leaving Alan with a small pile of questions, an equally sized pile of regrets for not asking them, and directions to the printer. With a small sigh, Alan decided to follow the only actionable legacy of their encounter and find the printer.

Alan leaned back in one of the lawn chairs scattered about outside the car-wash. Greg had been right; it was a slow day. But Alan didn't mind. It gave him plenty of time to get re-acquainted with his dissertation. He held the stack of papers that represented the culmination of his life's work like a child holding a toy they used to play with every day. It wasn't that long ago that he was defending the contents of those sheets in front of a panel of experts and peers, but already the pages felt as though they were written by a different hand. Alan flipped to the front and read the title out loud to himself.

"The Application of Quantum Teleportation in Fully Deterministic Superliminal Communication Networks."

Alan sighed to himself. He can't believe he didn't think of a cooler name for his paper, like Reallysuperfast Communication or Talking By Means Of Mysterious Quantum Magic That Nobody Actually Understands.

No, it probably wouldn't have been published, he concluded with a frown.

"Are you... asking me a question?"

Alan lowered his paper with a start. It was a familiar voice; one that reminded him of falling and stammering explanations and being really confused. He sprang to his feet and, sure enough, the dancer from the library was standing in front of him and giving him a questioning look.

"Ah, no! I was just- well, you see, there's this... how may I help you today at 'It's A Wash' car-wash?"

"Hmm, well, I was hoping to find Greg here, but I see he has left his establishment to his..." the dancer paused and examined frazzled, young Alan for a moment. "To his servant."

"Servant?" Alan repeated. "I am an employee here at 'It's A Wash.' I help clean the cars, organize the... things, count my employer's money, and make sure he can spend time with his family by working in his stead."

"I don't really see the distinction," the dancer concluded after a short period of internal deliberation. "Anyway, if you see Greg, tell him to at least give some notice next time before taking Steven on one of his 'beach days.'"

Alan had no idea who this 'Steven' was supposed to be, but he made a dutiful mental note to pass the message along.

"Would that happen to be an educational manuscript from the library?"

The question caught Alan's attention. The dancer was looking at the front page of his dissertation, and Alan could tell that she was reading through the abstract with some absent interest.

"It's a research paper. I actually just finished reading through it."

"Ah, yes, I see it now." The dancer chuckled a little and shook her head. "Humans have such strange ways of expressing trans-dimensional effects."

"Strange how?" Alan asked, slightly rebuffed by her reaction to his life's work.

"Well, take for example this whole quantum entanglement nonsense. As quaint as the tenants of quantum mechanics are, and as creative as you humans have been with them, without the basic theories of trans-dimensional particle interaction you can't possibly hope to explain why systems of particles in a single dimension would create a tangled superposition of quantum state! It seems the most popular argument amongst humans is to simply wave your hands at the issue and proclaim that 'it works.' Oh, and don't even get me started on..."

As her explanation continued, the dancer took on an increasingly smug look, nose turning ever upwards into the air and mouth growing into an ever more condescending grin. Soon, the girl's expression was something Alan was sure someone somewhere would label 'annoying.' But the content of her speech was something else entirely to the young physicist. Something beyond annoyance or reproach.

As her explanation continued, Alan became increasingly interested in her. Not just the nose or the forehead-oval or the odd choice in everyday attire, but parts of her speech jumped out at him. 'You humans', 'amongst humans,' 'trans-dimensional particle interaction' – just what perspective was she speaking from? From what source of apparent knowledge was she fueling her speech?

Should I even believe what she's saying?

The question appeared in Alan's thoughts alongside the flood of information issuing forth from the strange girl before him. Was there something in her words that humanity hadn't discovered, or was she just rattling off nonsense? Does the oval on her forehead mean something, or is it just an odd piece of jewelry?

"...and that lack of basic understanding is why humans have barely even begun to leave this planet."

Alan snapped out of his thoughts. The girl was done speaking. By the look on her face, it might not have even mattered to her whether Alan was listening or not. Either way, it occurred to him that, despite the torrent of speech he had just stood witness to, he hadn't even learned the dancer's name. It also occurred to him that it would probably be rude to demand a name without giving one first.

"I'm Alan," he said, holding out a hand.

"Pearl," the girl replied, regarding his gesture with equal parts discomfort and suspicion. She gingerly took his hand with her own, gave it a very efficient shake, and let go. "It's a... pleasure to make your acquaintance. I believe I should be going now so... farewell! Don't forget my message for Greg!"

Alan tried to wave goodbye, but Pearl had already turned about to walk away. With a weary sigh, he looked down at the stack of papers in his hands.

New hypothesis: speaking with Pearl will result in me learning something.