Randall sat in the darkness of his kennel, crouched in the farthest shadowed corner. The crinkled envelope sat between his fingers like some fragile promise, as delicate as the future it represented. The dim yellow light from the wall clock illuminated the time, each tick carving into his dwindling patience like a chisel against stone. The air in the facility was still, thick with the scent of damp concrete, sterilized metal, and the faint lingering musk of creatures far more accustomed to confinement than he would ever be—something he thought he would have grown used to after two months here.

He could hear the rhythmic hum of the nighttime insects outside, a backdrop to the oppressive silence that settled over the place like a suffocating shroud.

11:42 PM.

Eighteen minutes.

Eighteen minutes until he was supposed to follow her plan.

It wasn't too late to change his mind.

The large silver key sat against his palm, heavier than its size should allow, weighted down by the impossible crossroads ahead. One flick of his wrist, one smooth motion, and the lock would snap free, the door would swing wide, and he would be his own master once more. No waiting. No relying on anyone but himself. No debts owed, no lingering glances of pity, no ties to anyone who might mistake obligation for kindness. His digits flexed against the cool metal, the weight of possibility pressing against his ribs like a vice.

And oh, how the temptation clawed at him, sinking its hooks deep into the marrow of his resolve.

Everything in him screamed that he should take the risk. Who was she to dictate his fate? He didn't need a human's mercy. He didn't need her. He could vanish into the night, carve his own path, hunt down the answers that burned behind his eyes like embers refusing to die. His body was still healing, still weak in a sense, but he was Randall Boggs. He had suffered exile, endured hell, and emerged on the other side. A swamp? A few miles of wilderness? Nothing compared to what he had already survived. The challenge of life, the bite of a dog-eat-dog world had never scared him before. He had clawed his way out of worse.

But then what?

The unknown yawned before him, vast and indifferent. A great maw of shadows, gaping, endless, eager to consume him. He knew nothing of this land, these roads, the gathering places of humans who saw him as nothing more than an oddity, an aberration, or worse—something to be dealt with.

This was no city, no place of structure or order that he could manipulate, navigate, slip through like smoke. The swamp stretched for miles, a tangled labyrinth of hungry waters, hidden predators, and shifting ground that swallowed the careless whole. The air here thrummed with unseen dangers, with creatures that did not belong to his world and did not welcome him into theirs.

He had never feared the dark before, had never felt small in the face of uncertainty, but tonight, the weight of what he didn't know pressed against him like the depths of an ocean he had no hope of swimming.

Escape was one thing.

Survival was another beast entirely. And he was not at his full strength. Worst of all, he still couldn't camouflage himself. That damn shovel had done more than break skin. It had severed something deep within him, something vital. Colors no longer flowed over his skin with the ease they once had. Camouflage, an effortless instinct, had become an agonizing struggle. The more he tried, the more it burned—like forcing a rusted gear to turn with nothing but sheer will. A shimmer would start, a hint of the ability teasing at the edges of his senses, but then nothing. A flicker of what once was, then pain, then failure. It was like a wire had been cut, an essential nerve left disconnected. He wasn't whole. Not yet.

And the idea of being seen, truly seen, always seen, was more horrifying than the thought of another month in this miserable place.

And that meant he had to be smart.

A slow exhale through his teeth. His jaw set. His grip on the envelope tightened, crumpling the paper. He'd all but burned the escape plan into the forefront of his mind, enough that he could likely follow it in his sleep. With nothing else to lose, he had only gained with the knowledge. He would move, and he would live, but on his own terms. Resentment towards her coiled in his guts, for how long she had hesitated, left him locked up in this cage, forced him to linger when freedom was right there for the taking. When all she had to do was open the damn door instead of idly sitting by on her hands, harping about wanting to help him as she quizzically jotted down the most inane notes. The bitterness lingered, sharp as bile on his tongue.

He could not deny how ready he was to go home.

Yet, he could not deny that her care, no matter how annoyingly frustrating at times, had spared his life, mended his body, and now freed him from a second cell. He could not deny that her dedication and foolish compassion had paved the way to this point and opened her doors to him. No strings attached. Nothing gained aside from whatever information she had managed to spirit away from him in his time of crisis.

And that was the worst part, wasn't it?

Randall knew people. He knew motives. He knew costs. Nothing was ever given freely, not in his world, not in any world. And yet, Rita had done all of this with nothing in return. No manipulation. No angle. None that he could so easily spot but could make assumptions for. She had risked everything—her job, her safety—for him. A monster she barely knew. A creature that had fought her, snarled at her, bitten her, and still, she had stayed. And it wasn't kindness that unnerved him. It was the lack of expectation.

What a fool.

He owed her a debt. A heavy debt.

That truth made his stomach wasn't the time to repay what was owed, but maybe later down the road, when it was convenient for him. A bit of satisfaction. A bit of retribution. Or, she could choose not to hold this against him and leave it all behind.

His fronds twitched as he rolled his shoulders, the tension thick and coiling at the base of his spine. He could almost hear the clock ticking, feel the minutes stretching thin. Midnight was coming, closing in on him like the slow march of inevitability. Soon, the waiting would end. Soon, he would move. And soon, he would be free. But freedom meant nothing if he didn't live to see it through. And the next time anyone tried to put him in a cage—

They would regret it.

Fingers drummed against the steering wheel, hazel eyes locked onto a particular patch of cypress that acted as a barrier of sorts against the back dirt road heading towards Forever Wild. How many times had she walked this exact path from dirt road to facility and back again? It was short, sweet, to the point. Where the hell was he? At the rate her pulse was hammering, her heart was going to come straight through her chest, and she had just about all the emotional energy she could muster.

With a sigh, her eyes flicked from trees to the flicker of lights. Yellow and red taillights twinkled up the length of the highway like fireflies in the distance, the sound of tires on the road a quiet murmur to the insects starting their song in the nearby marsh. Somewhere off to the left, an owl cried a lonely note, joined by a pair of hoots down the road. All in all, an idyllic night, broken up only by the uneasy churn of her stomach as she wondered, not for the first time, exactly what the hell she was doing.

Sitting in the driver's seat of her Winnebago, waiting for a monster to escape the wildlife facility she worked… well… had worked at so she could drive him out of no man's land and back towards her old stomping ground and return him to a parallel dimension through the closet of some poor unsuspecting family. That sounded borderline insane when put in those terms, though it certainly did paint a more colorful picture of the situation.

She could still hardly believe any of this was happening. Yet here she was, following the whims of her intuition and a gut feeling, believing said monster would actually come to her instead of taking his chance and bolting off into the sunset and vanishing like the wind.

Rita leaned against the door of her RV, trying to ignore the knot welling in her stomach, ignoring the creeping sense of self-doubt nipping at her heels.

What the hell was she thinking?

Was this a crime? Was it an act of treason? Did this count as misuse of government property, illegal abandonment of livestock, unlawful liberation, and concealment of evidence of other sentient life? All of the above?

Rita paused at the sudden intrusion of thoughts, feeling the self-doubts explode up into full bloom again, waving and wiggling their stupid faces, nagging at the back of her mind in a cacophony of harried nastiness.

This was ridiculous. She was an idiot, wasn't she? Stupid and naive and a goddamn sucker if this didn't work—if he did just up and run.

Her mouth pursed, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth.

Okay, deep breath. Don't go and panic before anything has happened.

Rita attempted to let out the air, closing her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

After taking a long moment to process and bottle up all the problematic emotions she felt, she reopened those hazel eyes and was met with a slightly eerie set of green that reflected a slight off-red in the dark of the night, catching the glare of her own lowlights in the midnight hour. There were no visible pupils, just reflective glints as if staring into two orange-tinged, glass orbs.

Tapetum lucidum, the biological side of her brain whispered helpfully, giving a scientific term to describe an organism that could see better at night, particularly reflected light.

Uh-oh, her monkey brain took over as the unseen, silhouetted shape prowled around her RV, slinking about the trailer, making a path towards the door. She heard the creak of the rusted, battered latch, then the harsh squealing hinges opening in the silence.

Reflexively, Rita placed a hand upon the nape of Blondie, who sat in the passenger seat, head perked up and pointed to where their monstrous guest stood.

"Sit," she ordered, and Blondie complied, keeping his sights toward the back of the trailer—alert but not aggressive.

A soft, heavy pause filled the space, broken only by the steady hum of the RV engine. Then, a voice—low, rough, laced with an edge she hadn't expected.

"Didn't run." Randall's tone was flat, but it carried something else beneath it—an almost disbelieving note, as though he was still processing the fact that he was here and that she was here.

Rita let out a sharp breath. "Thought you might." Her fingers tightened around the worn leather of the steering wheel. After a beat, she added, quieter, "Thanks for… trusting me."

Randall shot her a sidelong glance, fronds twitching in what looked like a mixture of irritation and grudging acceptance. Another stretch of silence passed. She heard his tail flick against the floor, smelled the lingering tang of damp earth clinging to his scales. "Wouldn't call it trust," he muttered at last. "More like… least worst option."

Rita rolled her eyes but allowed a faint smirk. "I'll take what I can get. And close the door, will you? I don't need a swarm of bugs in here."

He let out a half-snort, half-huff, then pulled the door shut with a squeak of protesting hinges. The RV rocked gently, settling under his weight as he stepped further inside, setting the envelope down on the nearest surface. In the dim glow of the lights, she could see just how rough he looked—gaunt, grimy, his posture screaming tension. But beneath the grime, he still had that same defiant spark.

Blondie let out a soft, inquisitive whine, ears pricked. Randall ignored the dog, his gaze sliding to Rita's face.

"So," he said, tail coiling around his ankles, "what now?"

"Now I drive," Rita replied, shifting the RV from park to drive. "And hope nobody notices you're gone before we're on the road. Then we figure the rest out."

"Sounds like a blast." Randall eyed the vehicle like the idea of sitting in an old heap like this was akin to slow, torturous death. But, to his credit, he didn't voice his disdain. Instead, he slunk past the kitchenette, past the small dining area. Eight feet of wiry limbs and tail did not fit gracefully in such cramped quarters, but he made do, tail tapping an agitated rhythm against the floor.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. "So… Far Creek. That's where we're headed. Plan is, I drop you off, help you figure out how to get back home—assuming that's even possible."

He shifted, rubbing at the scarred ridge above his brow. "It's possible. Just… complicated."

"How so?" She cast him a glance.

Randall exhaled, looking impatient. "Monsters use closets to move between worlds. Kid's rooms, specifically." He lifted a hand as if to ward off her questions. "Don't ask me how or why, I don't want to play fifty questions. It's just how the energy works. We tap into it, the door opens, we get home."

Rita's eyebrows shot up. "You realize that sounds all kinds of creepy."

His fronds bristled, and his lips curled in a silent snarl. "Don't start. I'm not skulking around for kicks. It's the only way."

"All right, all right," she said, holding up a hand. "I'm not judging—okay, maybe a little—but I don't know a better method. So you find a kid's closet, jump through, bam. You're home?"

"Basically." He let out a low growl. "But we're not exactly in a city. I'm not sure how many families with kids we'll find in Far Creek. Might have to… scout around."

Rita gave an incredulous snort. "Creepy and suspicious."

He shot her a glare. "You asked."

"Fine, fair. Just don't go getting me arrested tonight." She tossed him a tight smile before focusing back on the dim road ahead.

"So that's the big plan: creep around some suburbs until we find a closet that leads to monster world."

"Monstropolis," he corrected irritably. "And yes—unless you've got a more brilliant idea?"

Rita shook her head. "Nah... in the meantime, you look like hell. Shower's in the back if you want. Water pressure sucks, but it beats reeking like a kennel."

Randall blinked, caught off guard by her offer of a shower. He glanced down at the grime caked into every crevice of his scales, the stale stench of captivity still clinging to him.

"Yeah," he mumbled, eyeing the back of the RV. "Might be a good idea."

Inwardly, he seethed. A shower? In this battered tin can? It felt like another cage—just with running water. Still, he'd endure it for now. If he wanted to stay alive, he had to play along.

"You got anything to eat?" Rita nodded toward the cabinets. "Help yourself. Just leave some for me and the dog."

Randall rolled his eyes, part of him stung by the insinuation that he might gorge himself like some mindless animal. "Sure," he said flatly, already scanning the cramped cabinets for locks, for anything he could pry open if he needed. He'd keep an eye on everything—her compassion, these supplies, the dog's reactions. Knowledge was power, and right now, he needed every advantage.

All eight feet of him crawled from the booth and back toward the shower, "Least worst option my ass.", he mumbled under his breath, slipping in and slamming the door shut a bit more harshly than he'd meant. When the off-yellow light came on, he cringed. To say it was cramped would have been the understatement of the century. "Wonderful."

Steam fogged the flimsy bathroom mirror as water pattered to the uneven rhythm of the aging showerhead. The cramped space felt more like a vertical coffin than a place of cleansing—barely enough room to twist around, half of his body pressed against the tiled wall, the other half resting near the drain. A dull ache persisted in his wrist, but the water's steady warmth soothed, making him wonder if this was just another permanent issue of his. Another to add to the growing tally list.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself a slow exhale, letting the sensation of filth slipping from his scales dull the constant coil of anxiety in his gut. If nothing else, at least a shower was progress. One day prior, rusted metal bars and four walls of concrete had been all the horizon he knew. That damn kennel might as well have been a tombstone with his name on it. Here lies Randall Boggs, monster failure extraordinaire.

Now, at least for the moment, the smell of antiseptic and caged hopelessness was draining away.

A flicker of grudging appreciation unfurled in his chest. Perhaps he'd never intended to call it gratitude, but the quiet knowledge remained—she had opened a door, offered a key, risked more than he'd ever have guessed. Rita. Foolish, maddening Rita, with her wide eyes and confounding empathy.

One corner of his mouth tugged into the faintest imitation of a smile, overshadowed almost immediately by the scowl that followed. Gratitude and cynicism clashed, pulling a sharp snort from his nostrils as he ran soapy claws over scarred sides.

An idiot and an empath.

Picking up a bottle, he lathered up what smelled like some cheap honeydew body soap and scrubbed. Eventually, the water lost its warmth and sputtered to a chill. One scaled hand turned the knob until silence reigned. Small droplets clung to him, sliding along the ridges of a body that had once adapted to any environment with a single thought. No such power existed now. Camouflage remained out of reach, stolen by a savage blow to the skull that still throbbed from time to time.

A restless shift brought him closer to the mirror. The reflection peered back, an apparition half the monster he used to be. A jagged scar stretched above the left brow and across his eye, tugging at the skin with each twitch of muscle. Worse still, the back frond on that side was gone—ripped away, leaving only a raw stump. A permanent disfigurement that spat in the face of vanity. Always seen, indeed.

Memories pressed in, uninvited. Wazowski, with that shrill voice and that single mocking eye. Sullivan, all righteous moralizing and unearned muscle. Even the image of Waternoose drifted through the haze—a potent mixture of arrogance and cunning behind that portly exterior. Their last meeting had ended in betrayal on some level. Who betrayed whom first? Difficult to say. So many shifting alliances, so many severed ties.

Could that bond be reforged? One might guess it would be a waste of time—Waternoose had proven as self-serving as he himself, but perhaps that was precisely why an alliance might still be possible. Or worthless.

Fingers clenched around the edge of the sink, tension returning to coil through every inch of him.

Another path shimmered, less vengeful: the memory of Rex, his little nephew, with those bright orange scales of his and too many legs always tangling up amongst themselves in his haste to greet him, with his sister Jazz trailing behind. Her blue scales looking a bit dull, half a dozen stray fronds falling onto her face and getting in her eyes, nagging at him in some way for being married to his job again. He thought of Rex bounding across the living room floor, shrieking in delight whenever Uncle Randy would vanish behind a door then flicker back into sight, Jazz forever amused by their antics. Their memory softened him in a way that no apology or promise from anyone else could. They were his family, and that bond had outlasted everything else. At least… he hoped it had.

A ragged breath escaped. One foot in revenge, one foot in regret. The water still dripping from the faucet provided a quiet metronome to his storming thoughts.

Which would he follow?

With the water off, the steady hum of the engine accompanied the din of the road rolling below, and he took his sweet time drying off his mottled skin with the sorry excuse for a towel that had been sitting neatly folded on the cabinet below the mirror. Outside, he could scarcely hear music playing over the crunch of gravel through the slightly opened window for ventilation.

As satisfied as he could be given the circumstances, he peeked his head out of the bathroom and froze.

A beat.

Two.

He raised the top part of his body up so it was fully out of the cramped coffin of a stall.

What greeted him was none other than a black wet nose and a lolling tongue sticking out of a wide, grinning face. Randall let out a startled and indignant yelp.

The nose receded, but not before licking Randalls. Randall reeled back into the cramped stall and slammed the flimsy door shut, suddenly realizing he had just met Rita's damn beast up close and personal for the first time.

From the other side, Rita shouted, "Sorry!"

There was the scramble of paws. His hostess was less than pleased by this unexpected encounter of two worlds.

"Space cadet! Shotgun!"

Paws scrabbled away and back toward the front, freeing up Randall from an unanticipated moment of entrapment. He swung the flimsy door open to give himself some headspace and climbed out. He glowered after Blondie, which did nothing, as it did not seem to be effective. Then his eyes slid toward the driver's seat and back to the kitchenette.

Stepping into the kitchenette felt like wandering onto a stage set up for a puppet show—everything curated for human proportions, the drawers too small, the counters too low. Randall's fronds gave a brief twitch as he scanned the limited rations crammed behind squeaking cabinet doors. An ancient half-loaf of bread, scuffed cans with peeling labels, a jar of jelly on its last legs, and a small scraping of peanut butter.

A soft sigh escaped as he started assembling a makeshift sandwich with methodical precision, each movement more careful than he'd like—his wrist twinged if he gripped the knife too forcefully. When at last he dropped the second slice of bread into place, he eyed his handiwork with something bordering on acceptance. It wasn't a grand feast, but it would do. Just like scarewiches, mused a fleeting memory.

He slid over to the cramped dining nook and settled, or tried to. The booth's cushion squeaked under his scales, the table barely sparing enough room for his tail to curl along the edge. He took a bite and found it… edible.

The music drifting from the front crackled in and out of static, the singer's voice high and sweet, beckoning to call someone. An unusual siren's melody if he ever heard one, but oddly comforting. Randall noted the snappy beat and the airy synthesizers in the background, quite unlike the industrial hiss and clang he'd grown used to in his own world's corridors. He found himself tapping a digit against the table. The tune wasn't so bad—at least it had energy.

Blondie popped back into view, ears perked, a shimmering hope in those canine eyes. Randall's tail stiffened; old instincts told him to ward off potential threats, but the dog only sniffed at the peanut butter-laced air. The battered monster briefly hesitated, half an urge to chase the beast away, half an odd pang of curiosity.

Why was everyone in this RV so damned friendly?

Rita, glancing back through the rearview mirror, offered a small wave of encouragement.

"He's probably hoping for a crumb of that sandwich," she called over the distant hum of the track. "But if you want him to leave you alone—just say so. He'll get the hint."

Randall let out a humorless snort. "At least one of you listens."

Blondie's tail gave a slow wag, oblivious or unbothered by the sarcasm. Randall drummed his digits on the table, eyeing the dog warily, torn between annoyance and something that almost resembled amusement.

"...He's not going to jump on me?"

"If you're polite," Rita answered with a touch of dryness. "Let him sniff your hand first if you want to, y'know… not be enemies. He won't hurt you unless you hurt me." He could've sworn he heard the grumbled word 'again' but chose to ignore it. The suggestion rang in the small space. Randall grumbled under his breath but extended his free hand, fingers reined in so as not to seem overtly threatening. Blondie sniffed eagerly, ears going alert, nose wet against Randall's scales. An odd flicker of acceptance rippled through the monster's chest, reminiscent of a moment in another life—when forging alliances had been easier, or at least less humiliating.

Did the dog sense how alien he was? Or maybe it just wanted peanut butter.

After a beat, Randall withdrew and resumed nibbling on his food, ignoring the slight warmth that tickled in his cheeks.

"There. We've met." He swatted the stray crumb off the corner of his mouth, refusing to meet the dog's expectant gaze. "Happy now?"

Blondie huffed a contented sigh, trotting back toward the passenger seat as if that was all it needed—an introduction and a vague show of peace.

Rita cast a quick glance over her shoulder. "Thanks for not biting that one."

Randall grunted, returning to his sandwich. "Don't push your luck."

An interval of quiet settled, broken only by the music's soft chorus and the thrum of the RV's wheels on asphalt. He took another bite, swallowing hard before speaking.

"What's next, then? We drive 'til Far Creek and hope nobody stops us? No check-ins with your boss or coworkers looking for the runaway lizard?"

Rita's lips thinned as she lowered the volume of the tape player. "I've already covered for myself, told them I've got a family emergency. Which ain't a lie, but I've got a decent window of time set aside for you."

The music turned back up, the singer's voice picking up mid-lyric about love and calls and making contact.

Randall huffed a barely audible snort at the sheer absurdity of it all. A monster, a dog, and a human riding into the night with stolen time, crossing some uncharted boundary between captivity and half-baked freedom.

The silence between them, aside from the music, pervaded until Rita reached for the dial and lowered the song again.

"There's, uh… a little space in the back, past the shower. A bed. Not exactly a king-size, but better than the booth if you need a cat nap. Got at least an hour or so before we get there. Depending..."

Randall hesitated, fingers drumming against the tabletop. Sleep sounded like a liability. Letting his guard down around a human—this human—no matter how well-intentioned, felt like half a step from foolishness. But the weariness in his bones argued otherwise, a dull ache that whispered he couldn't stay vigilant forever. Besides, if she'd meant to betray him, she could've done it twenty times over by now.

Reluctantly, he gave a curt nod. "Fine. Just don't… do anything stupid."

She tsked. "You know I was planning on driving us into the next ditch. Too bad."

Blondie lifted his head from the passenger seat but made no move to follow as Randall slipped past the kitchenette and toward the back. The small corridor jostled with each bump in the highway, metal squeaking in protest, but eventually, he found the bedroom—another small walled room with a mattress pressed against the RV's wall, tucked under a small window.

Blankets were piled on top in a haphazard attempt at comfort, like some little nest. There was the briefest feeling of déjà vu that flickered through his brain like half-forgotten memories. Had he been here before?

Shaking his head, Randall moved forward. Easing his body onto the bed proved trickier than expected. By the time he managed to lie down without tangling himself in the sheets, his muscles felt heavier than lead. The soft press of the mattress beneath him was unexpectedly soothing, a gentle cradle instead of unyielding concrete. Rita hadn't lied; it might not be a king-size, but compared to a kennel floor, it was heaven.

Oh.

Oh, was it heaven.

For a brief instant, he propped himself on one elbow, eyeing the small window. Beyond the glass, Louisiana's night passed by in a blur of shadows—gnarled trees against a velvety sky, the occasional flicker of passing headlights, the distant glimmer of some swampy water caught by the moonlight. The hum of the engine and the croon of the radio in the background acted as a lullaby of sorts, weaving through the hush of the night. He let out a shuddering breath, scaly flanks rising and falling. When was the last time he'd slept somewhere soft? It felt like years. Not since he'd started the Scream Extractor. His apartment had become home to a ghost, his desk at work his new home away from home. He wasn't too fond of the times he'd inadvertently played sleepover at his job, snoring amidst a pile of concept drawings and engineering schematics.

The blanket's threadbare warmth settled over him, a gentle weight that coaxed his eyelids lower. Clean scales, a pillow beneath his head, nothing pinning him down… in another life, this would have been normal. Used to be normal. Now, it was a stolen gift. A stolen moment. He breathed deeply, smelling a scent he'd come to recognize as Rita's. Honey and warm laundry and whatever else made up the essence of the human outside of that kennel. Comforting in a way he didn't understand but couldn't ignore, couldn't shove away. For just a bit longer, he could let it be.

A sliver of tension in his chest stirred; the nagging part that refused to trust, that warned him of impending betrayal. Yet his weary body countered with logic: if Rita had set him free, if she'd armed him with that plan, if she'd taken this risk… maybe—just maybe—he could spare a few hours of vulnerability. Her voice drifted in now and then from the driver's seat, either humming along with the radio or murmuring the occasional one-liner to Blondie.

"This one's my jam," she'd tell him with a laugh in her voice or "Hey it's your namesake!" The canine gave a quiet chuff as if amused in turn.

And something about the music or the low murmurs of her voice made him think of what life would've been had he never stepped into that stupid accident, had his entire world not turned on its head. He curled his tail around one leg, a sense of comfort that was as reflexive as breathing, and stared at a spot on the ceiling. This is real, he reminded himself.

He was out of the kennel, shackled only by exhaustion and the precariousness of his half-earned freedom. Another exhale, slower this time, letting the knots in his back unwind.

Sleep crept up on him like a thief, stealing the razor's edge from his mind. The swirl of possibilities—Wazowski, Sullivan, Waternoose, Jazz, Rex—danced at the edges of his consciousness, but their voices dimmed under the hush of a lullaby only the road could compose. Beneath the last vestiges of doubt, he felt a flicker of acceptance. Or at least less hostility, some almost imperceptible softening in his chest whenever he recalled Rita's unwavering, exasperating kindness. His eyes slid shut. He drifted, half-dreaming of stomping footsteps and closet doors, of old rivalries and younger days. Of a nephew's laughter and a sister's exasperated grin.

The road's gentle sway mingled with the crackle of the radio, weaving into a hazy tapestry that enveloped him like a final blanket. For the first time in a long while, Randall Boggs felt the quiet promise of rest. If only for a moment, he let that improbable comfort wash over him, and he allowed his fronds to droop into the softness of the pillow.

One last fleeting thought flickered across his mind: Maybe she isn't so bad.

Then the gentle dark of a dreamless sleep claimed him.