Current State of the Story

It would have been just fine if only her window had shut properly.

It wasn’t as if her window had ever shut properly, but it had never been a problem before now. It shut almost entirely, leaving only the smallest of cracks, and even the cold winter air didn’t really seep in. But now the wind was wailing up against the wall of her apartment, and tiny crystals of light, dry snow were collecting on the windowsill and spraying down on her face as she tried to sleep. She rolled over and did her best to bury her head in pillow and blanket without making it impossible to breath. Stupid blizzard.

No luck. She could feel the chill on the edges of her ears, even when all the rest of her was warm. Even if she did succeed in drifting off, there was no way she would sleep soundly, and the discomfort would probably do weird things to her dreams. She yawned, got up, and walked over to a less offensive window, watching the trees toss in the gale by the dim, surreal light of the snow-filtered street lamps. At least this way there was no chance of school tomorrow. If she had to, she could sleep then. She made a face, groggily located her slippers, and padded off to the kitchen in search of hot cocoa.

She paused at the threshold to the living room, and blinked. In the dim light she could just make out two familiar figures seated across a chessboard: Tim, hunched over beside an entire colony of beer bottles, and Greg sprawled flat on his face next to a single bottle of wine and a parallel colony of captured chess pieces, snoring slightly. His nose was perilously close to the edge of the board; Julie wondered idly what disaster would be wreaked on the battlefield if he sneezed. Both elementals had, she noted with interest, removed their hats.

Tim grinned at her. "Ferrets have no alcohol tolerance," he whispered loudly. "They love it, but it makes them hypoglycemic."

"Even elemental ferrets?" she asked curiously.

"Well, this one. But he’s not any more convenient for himself than anyone else, so it may just be him. I don’t remember if I’ve met any others. Ferrets are young."

"Young?"

"They haven’t been around that long. Only a couple of thousand years. They’re a domestic species. And I haven’t hung out with many wild weasels."

"Is he always like this?" Julie asked, watching. "How bad a chess player are you?!"

Tim made a face and looked about to respond when Greg yawned, pulled himself into a sitting position – knocking over most of the captured pieces, but thankfully not the bottle of wine – glanced at the board and carelessly moved a piece. "Eschec mat."

"What?!" the hamster exclaimed.

The Ferret of Inconvenience grinned. "You forgot that bishops can move more than three squares at a time. Again."

"Since when?"

"Since…oh, the fifteenth century or so." He grinned infuriatingly. "Sorry."

Tim let forth a stream of intense-sounding Arabic curses mixed with hamster noises.* Greg yawned. "Then it’s a good thing I’m a product of abiogenesis, isn’t it?"

Julie rolled her eyes at both of them. "Something tells me I’m glad I didn’t understand any of that. Now what are you doing in my living room?"

"Playing chess," Tim replied innocently.

"In the dark?"

He shook his head. "You need to overcome these diurnal prejudices of yours." He glanced at Greg. "Maybe we should get her one of those world maps where south is up."

"Why are you playing chess in the dark in my living room? And I assume you’re going to throw out the beer bottles when you’re done?"

"Actually, I was planning on recycling them. I don’t want to still be looking at them in a thousand years."

"That’s a bit presumptuous," Greg interjected. "How can you be sure you’ll be around in a thousand years?"

"Because I’m a desert rodent with worldwide syndication, not an overdomesticted weasel with grassroots political opposition," Tim replied, wrinkling his nose.

"Ouch."

"Besides, people like me. I’m cute."

"You’re not so cute as a person."

"So what?"

"People!" Julie interrupted. "Or whatever. Quit species-bashing and answer my question."

"Which was that?" the hamster asked apologetically.

"Why you were playing chess in the dark in my living room. Or you can skip the chess part and just tell me why you’re in my living room at all."

"Well, it’s because of the chess," Gregg said. "Every place is closed! Even the 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts with the fascinating sketchy people."

"That’s interesting," Julie observed; "I would have thought you were one."

"I didn’t say I wasn’t."

"I’m not!" Tim protested.

"Anyway," the ferret continued. "We tried playing outside, but the wind kept blowing the pieces over, and the snow kept drifting across the chess board, and Tim's backup beer bottles kept freezing and exploding. And we figured you wouldn’t mind."

"We’ll make you breakfast," the hamster offered.

"Elementals can’t keep beer bottles from exploding?" she asked incredulously.

"Not unless they’re paying attention," Greg replied.

"Not when he’s involved," Tim said simultaneously.

"Can you fix my window?" Julie asked.

"What’s wrong with it?" Tim asked.

"It’s won’t close all the way, and the snow is blowing in and keeping me from sleeping."

"Have you tried duct tape?" the he asked.

She blinked. "Duct tape?"

"Duct tape fixes everything."

"I was hoping for a slightly more elegant solution."

"I thought you were hoping to be able to sleep. Duct tape would do it."

Julie took a deep breath and tried to think calm, non-sleep-deprived thoughts. "I do not host elemental chess games in my living room so that I can patch my leaky windows with duct tape. Could one of you come look at it?"

Tim nodded obligingly and followed her down the hall, as Gregg began to collect the spilled chess pieces. She had vague qualms about leaving the Ferret of Inconvenience alone in her living room, but it was really no riskier than having him accompanied in her living room, or alone anywhere else. He was completely trustworthy as far as intentions go; it was just his nature to radiate chaos wherever he went, unless he was making a special effort not to. But he was good company, and if she was going to put up with the liability of having him in her apartment at all, she thought, he might as well be in the living room.

And he had more common sense than the hamster, anyway – duct tape?! Though, she reflected sleepily, duct tape would have worked. She supposed she really should have thought of that herself. Assuming she had any duct tape.

Tim peered at her window for a moment, then, placing fingers on the frame and thumbs under the sill, pulled it shut with no effort.

"There," he said, wiping his hands off against each other [what’s the term for this?]. "That should do it."

"What was the problem?" she asked curiously.

"It was just jammed, and there was some gunk in the tracks," he replied.

She nodded. "I guess I’ll call someone after the streets clear, and get them to look at it. I doubt I’ll need or want to open it again before spring."

"No need," he said; "I fixed it." He leaned over to demonstrate, sliding it up and down with ease. Cold air and snow rushed into the room, and ceased just as abruptly.
"Yes, but you always do that," she replied, sounding a bit wearier than intended. "That doesn't mean I can open it."

He glanced at her. "Try it in the morning; you'll see I fixed it. But right now you should probably get some sleep. Long day?"

"Yeah," she replied, realizing anew just how tired she was. Suddenly it took all her energy to stay awake and standing. "I…is it okay if I tell you about it tomorrow?"

He grinned. "No problem. We’ll play a few more games; wake up whenever you feel like it."

"But won’t you be tired then?" she said. "I remember you saying once that hamsters are nocturnal. And what the heck are ferrets?"

"Ferrets are…kind of nocturnal, I think?" he postulated. "I dunno; ask Greg. I saw a PBS documentary once, I think, about black-footed ferrets, that said they’re nocturnal – but I’ve never met one, and I don’t know if they’re normal. To the extent that a ferret can be said to be normal, of course. And hamsters are nocturnal. But neither of us is actually alive, so that doesn’t really matter all that much. Sleep well!"

He flicked the light off and turned to go. "Wait!" she said.

He turned around, silhouetted in the doorway in the light from the hallway. "Yes?"

"What does it mean, that you’re not alive? You look alive to me, both of you."

In the darkness, she thought she saw him grin. "Well, what is it you teach your kids life is? Respiration, digestion, reproduction, whatever?"

"I don’t think they teach second graders that," Julie said. "You must have heard it somewhere else."

"Fair enough. But that’s what they teach?"

"I think so," she replied.

"And I can’t speak for the ferrets of inconvenience out there, but I don’t know of any elementals who do any of those. We’re just animate and sentient. Good night!" He shut the door quietly and was gone.

Julie got back in bed; the pillowcase was still a bit cold and damp from the melted snow, but the air was already feeling more habitable. She turned the pillow over, pondered for a few moments the idea of elementals playing chess in her living room as she slept, and while she was doing so, fell fast asleep.

* To be possibly replaced with the actual Arabic when I find it.

At some ungodly but appropriate hour of the morning the alarm on her clock-radio went off. She listened dutifully to the list of closed schools until she heard hers named, then thwacked it off and fell seamlessly back to sleep.

When she reawoke it was broad daylight, albeit the ceaselessly ambiguous dawn-like light of a world covered with snow. She loved that light; growing up it had meant a possible day off from school, and today – whaddaya know, it still did. Now, though, she had a car to worry about. She made a face and peered out her blinds. The snow was deep enough that there was no good frame of reference for how deep it was. Her car was nowhere in sight, though she thought she could spot maybe a glimpse of an antenna. She cursed under her breath and went off to the kitchen in search of her uninvited guests.

"I know," she heard the hamster’s voice say from the kitchen. "But I told her, if you go around taking advice from spiders, that sort of thing is bound to happen! Good morning," he added as Julie walked in. "Do you like waffles?"

"I’m not sure," she said. "Can I let you know in a minute?"

He blinked. "Was that a joke or an answer?"

"Not to be really annoying or anything, but I’m not entirely sure about that either," she replied sleepily. "I just got up. Give me a minute."

He shook his head. "You people are so indecisive."

"See?" she said. "You’re learning valuable information about humans. You should thank me for the opportunity."

He stood and bowed. "Thank you for the opportunity."

She couldn’t really think of anything to do in response besides blink. She wondered vaguely whether he was joking or serious, but quickly concluded that her brainwaves would be much better invested in the question of breakfast.

Abruptly, another thought crossed her mind. "Drat," she said, inadvertently out loud.

"Drat what?" Greg asked curiously.

"I left the window scraper in the car."

"But your windows are fine," Tim replied, looking around.

"The scraper for the windows of the car."

"But your car is buried under three feet of snow," the ferret pointed out. You can’t scrape off the ice until you can reach it anyway. And by then it could all have melted."

"I hope you mean the ice and not the car," she said, wishing she had slightly less surreal guests. But then, less surreal guests wouldn’t have materialized mid-snowstorm and fixed her window. You win some, you lose some.

"Of course I meant the ice," Greg replied, looking offended. "I would never melt your car! I’m the Ferret of Inconvenience, not the Meerkat of Ridiculousness!"

She stared at him. "Is there a Meerkat of Ridiculousness?"

"I’m not actually sure myself. But it seems like the only logical explanation."

"For what? —Wait, never mind," she said. "This isn’t going to get anywhere. But you asked what I was cursing about, and that was it."

"You call that cursing?" Tim asked.

"Yes," she replied. "It isn’t anything other than cursing, is it?"

"It’s a good thing you can’t understand what he says," Greg opined, gesturing at the hamster, who was looking suddenly thoughtful.

"I wonder if I have any – " He rummaged through his pockets, one after the other, as if searching for something specific. "Aha!" With no respect for any laws of physics Julie was aware of, he proudly produced something that looked even more unwieldy and un-pocket-suitable than bottles of beer, and laid it on the table. She blinked. It was a long, sleek samurai sword in an intricately carved case. It looked like it should be transported to a museum without passing Go. "Will that work?" he asked.

"Um," she said. "For what?"

"For scraping the ice off your car?"

"Um, no," was all she could manage to respond with.

"Oh." He sounded very disappointed. "Oh, well, then. It’s all I have on me at the moment." He picked up the sword and tried a few surprisingly accomplished passes with it.

"Where did you learn that?" Greg asked. "Since when do they do samurai fighting in the Levant?"

"They don’t," Tim replied. "But I showed up early at the convention a bunch of times back when transportation was iffier. I didn’t want to risk being late and having all the good food be gone – one year I had to resort to swimming." He shuddered deeply. "That was bad. But I got there for the hors d’oeuvres!" He tossed the sword (fortunately still sheathed) in the air and caught it. "But it’s not like there was anything else to do, hanging around Japan waiting for everyone else to show up." He turned to Julie and held the sword out. "You’re sure you don’t want to try it? It could work, I think." She shook her head mutely. He shrugged and returned it to his pocket in whatever fascinatingly illogical way he’d produced it in the first place.

"Have you ever considered giving that to a museum?" she asked.

"No," he replied, sounding surprised. "Why would I want to do that? They would just stick it in a glass case somewhere until it was too old to be good for anything, and I would have nothing for scraping the ice off windows."

"I had no idea elementals had such little appreciation for art," she said faintly.

"Hey!" Greg retorted. "Don’t judge a ferret by the company he keeps! Hamsters have no appreciation for art. They’re relentlessly utilitarian."

"I am not utilitarian!" Tim replied with equal vehemence. "I’m totally useless! And proud of it!"

The ferret shrugged. "You make a good lab rat," he said with a grin. The hamster seemed to search for a response, but settled for sticking his tongue out. "Careful," Greg said. "You’re getting awfully anthropomorphic there. If you don’t watch out you’ll end up a Disney character."

"Yes, I would like waffles," Julie said.

"Oh, good," Tim said excitedly. He turned and began to rummage busily through her cupboards as if he knew where things were. She wasn’t sure she even had the ingredients for waffles – and she knew she didn’t have a waffle iron – but she had the feeling that one way or another he wasn’t going to let that stop him. So there was really no point in mentioning it.

"Do you need any help?" the ferret asked.

"I’m sure he’ll be fine," Julie said quickly. She wasn’t sure exactly what inconvenient waffles would be like, but this wasn’t the day she wanted to find out. For all she knew, Tim’s waffles-without-ingredients efforts would be problematic enough. "What have you been up to these days?" she asked, hoping if she kept the conversation busy enough he’d forget about wanting to help.

"He’s been playing strip poker with Anansi," the hamster said over his shoulder.

"I don’t believe she asked you!" Greg retorted.

"True questions can be answered by anybody."

"Now who’s proliferating the inconvenience?" the ferret asked smugly.

"No smug ferrets in my kitchen!" Julie announced, opening the refrigerator. "Does anybody want orange juice?"

"What’s wrong with smug ferrets?" Greg asked, looking surprisingly wounded.

"I don’t know; it’s just a rule. Not all rules need reasons."

"Now you’re being inconvenient too!" he said, looking perturbed. "This is very disconcerting."

She shrugged. "Meh. I’m sorry. I don’t know – it’s just been a long week."

"In any way in particular?" he asked, dropping whatever degree to which he had been mugging in favor of real concern. Eggs cracked in the background, hopefully on purpose.

"Eh. I don’t know. Just something about – nothing in particular – teaching, I guess? No, that’s not it. I’ve just been feeling kind of generally discouraged lately. Maybe it’s the weather."

"You seem to like the kids," Greg observed. "Not that I’ve seen you interact with them in person."

"Oh, they’re wonderful," Julie said. "Working with them totally makes my day. I love my job, though sometimes I wonder how good I am at it. At least, it’s something I enjoy doing in the moment. But sometimes I wonder whether I just…lack a greater sense of purpose, I guess. That I should be finding."

"That’s easy to answer," the ferret replied. "You don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Have a purpose."

She stopped and looked at him, stunned into silence at the confident bluntness of his statement.

"I guess you would know," she managed after a moment.

He looked confused. "Why?"

"Well, I remember you saying once that you have no purpose either, so…"

The ferret shook his head. "I have no reason to exist. That’s different. Of course I have a purpose. I’m a trickster figure. It’s like the jokers in a deck of cards – two in every deck, along with all the kings and queens and eights and hamsters, even they’re almost never necessary for the game. And this world is played with a lot of decks."

"By whom, for what?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. But so – what do you call him, again? – Tim here exists for a reason; he exists because there are hamsters. All the elementals are like that. Well, they don’t all exist because there are hamsters – but you know what I mean. I suppose he has a purpose, if you’ll allow for incarnating hamsterness being a purpose. It’s what he’s around to do. Don’t ask me why," he said quickly. "I have no idea. But that’s what elementals are. I’m a weird subclause; I incarnate an idea, though I happen in addition to be a ferret. That’s my purpose. He hangs out across the millennia being a hamster, I hang out being inconvenient, and Eveline hangs out being a viper, though she almost qualifies for an idea herself these days, given how much she models her self-image on human notions of snake ethos. But that’s more of a hobby, I guess. But anyway, you’re an individual. You don’t come with a purpose, though there’s nothing to stop you from having one. You can have any purpose, if you decide you want to. But it’s not like there’s one out there that will fall on your head if you wait. It doesn’t work that way."

She thought for a moment. "I’m not sure I like that. In some weird way, I’d almost rather have a purpose I didn’t like, at this point, just to know for sure what it was. Though I’m sure I’d feel differently in time, of course."

"Doesn’t matter," he said succinctly. "It’s just as true whether you like it or not."

"If you’re a trickster figure, how can I even be sure you’re not making this up?" she asked, though it seemed like an unlikely thing to fabricate.

The ferret blinked. "Are you kidding?! Nothing’s more inconvenient than the truth. I’m the most forthright elemental you’re likely to meet!"

She laughed, shaken a bit out of her malaise in spite of herself. "You must be one of the lesser-known trickster figures," she said dryly.

He grinned. "You say that like it’s a bad thing. The really successful trickster figures are the ones that never get caught – well, Coyote’s pretty good, but he’s a bit of an image-monger. I always thought he was secretly happy when the American West got invaded by TVs. But Anansi is totally jealous of my record."

"Ah, yes," said the hamster from behind them. "We all know that inside every mythical giant spider, there’s a skanky ferret just waiting to get out."

"That’s not what I meant!" Greg protested. "He was still impressed. Besides," he added, "how do you know that isn’t true? Ferrets are awesome."

Tim just blinked at him knowingly, returning his attention to his clandestine waffle-related activities before the ferret had a chance to scowl.

"So why do you need a purpose, anyway?" Greg asked Julie.

"I – " She honestly didn’t have an answer for that. "What else am I supposed to do?" she asked finally.

"Well, you could keep doing what you’re doing," he suggested. "Or if you don’t like it, stop doing it and find something you do like. I don’t see why that would require a purpose, though."

"What else would I do, though?" she asked.

"Hang out with us for a while," Tim’s voice suggested from behind her.

"Like I’d have the time for that!" she exclaimed.

"Besides," Greg said, "that might be tricky. She needs to eat and sleep and all those other things."

"Good," Tim replied. "That’s inconvenient. It can decoy your aura for long enough for us to maybe get something done."

"But we don’t do anything," the ferret pointed out. "We drink and play chess. And occasionally Eveline decides she’s neglecting her biological duties, and shows up and makes you squirm, and I laugh at both of you." He grinned at Julie. "As I was saying, purpose and productivity have very little to do with one another."

"That’s just because being a Ferret of Inconvenience doesn’t take any work!" the hamster replied.

"I work damn hard at it, thank you very much."

"Yes, but that’s not because you have to; it’s because you enjoy it."

"So?"

"So that’s not work; that’s a hobby."

"That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t stop being a job just because I find it fun. That doesn’t mean it’s good for anything, though."

"I’m not going to argue with that," Tim replied. "Just don’t go casting aspersions on the usefulness of being a hamster just because you have no point!"

"Point?" Greg retorted. "What do hamsters do for the planet?"

"Make people happy!" Tim said. "Well, and serve as lab subjects. But they’re both important!"

"I catch rats," Greg offered. "Well, I used to."

"All ferrets do that," Tim pointed out. "You’re not the archetypal ferret. Besides, other ferrets don’t accidentally lead all the town’s children out after them when they leave! You really should have been paying attention."

"I said I was sorry!" the ferret protested. "I sent them a fruitcake the next Christmas and everything!" He gave Julie a beseeching look. "Sir Isaac Newton let a horse escape while he was thinking, and did anyone hold it against him? No! They thought it was cute. Thoreau had crowds of children follow him wherever he went, and people just chalked it up to his being an amusing eccentric. And me? An honest mistake, and I’m stuck with creepy folktales. I get no slack!"

"If you want slack, you’re in the wrong line of work," the hamster said. He grinned at Julie. "And even if he is, he doesn’t have a choice. Catch the drift?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "But given that I have to do something, I’d still like a reason."

"Well," Greg said, still looking a bit put-out about the rat thing, "what’s stopping you from doing nothing?"

"The need to eat?" she suggested.

"We already told you you could come hang out with us," Tim pointed out. "We’d find food for you somewhere or other. But that doesn’t seem to fix your problem."

"Yeah," she admitted. "I want something to do. And I want to be doing it for a reason." Abruptly, she pushed her chair back and wandered over to the living-room window, picking up static from the carpet as she went. She stood for a few minutes watching the wind blow the powdered snow in clouds over the drifts, like a very confused mist, or maybe a horde of angry gnats. The world looked changed, different – the ground several feet higher, the wind out of another century; forces of nature throwing up snow drifts between her and her everyday life. It was kind of nice, though in time it would get annoying, and then it would melt. The cold radiated in through the glass. The only sounds were the clinking of dishes, as unrelated forces of nature made waffles in her kitchen.

"What are you guys doing in two weeks?" she asked finally.

"I don't plan ahead," the ferret pronounced. Tim turned and glared at him. "…though sometimes other people make plans that involve me, and expect me to show up." He glanced at the hamster. "So what are we doing?"

Tim frowned. "Well, I owe Eveline lunch."

"You're not actually planning on volunteering for that, are you?!" Greg asked, with what Julie took to be expertly feigned shock. Though what the heck, for all she knew it was real shock; she had to admit she was pretty surprised herself.

"Of course not," Tim replied with a what-do-you-take-me-for look. "But it is on my calendar."

The ferret rolled his eyes. "Good to know. And while you're at it, get me Napoleon's autograph. What are we actually doing?"

"I have no idea," Tim said, glancing at his hands, which were covered in an unnecessarily dramatic amount of flour. "I was assuming we would wander around until we found something interesting, like we usually do. Or we could sit in the snow and play chess for another couple of weeks, of course."

"Well," Julie said, "if you're playing chess in the snow, I probably don't want to get involved. But if you're traveling, could I go with you? I have a week of break; could I get back in time?"

"I don't see why not," Tim replied. He attempted to scratch his forehead with his elbow, inhaled flour, and sneezed. "I vote for traveling; I don't like this climate. It's too cold for a hamster."

"It's a perfectly good temperature for a ferret," that elemental retorted.

"Isn't that irrelevant?" Julie cut in, before the hamster had a chance to respond. "I mean, since neither of you seems to notice temperature at all." They both turned and stared at her blankly, as if she'd said something completely beyond comprehension. She shrugged and decided this must be another weird elemental thing.

She took a step back towards the kitchen and paused, glancing around her for some sort of grounded metal. "Is everything okay?" Greg asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm just trying to get rid of all this static before I shock myself or short out my computer." She made a face. "The air's so dry at this time of year."

"Oh, that's all?" he said. He jumped up, strode forward in a few steps, and poked her in the shoulder. The static vanished.

"That's convenient," she replied unthinkingly. The ferret looked slightly stunned, glancing around warily as if someone might have heard. "It's okay," she said with a grin. "I won't tell!"

"Oh, that's alright," he replied a bit distractedly. "I do have a reputation to maintain, and all, but it's at no risk. Particularly since almost no one has ever heard of me in the first place. But I'm not usually convenient without making a special effort. It's an odd sensation – I hope it doesn't mean I'm getting sick, or something."

"You're not getting sick," Tim announced from the kitchen. "You're not alive. And the waffles are ready."

"Those things may never have been said together before," Julie observed with interest.

"That's what I'm here for," he replied, rinsing his hands off in the sink. Miraculously, the rest of the kitchen seemed to be reasonably clean; possibly cleaner than she had left it. She wondered whether the Boy Scouts took elemental hamsters, and whether they'd worry that it would have a bad influence on the children.

"I thought you were here to be a hamster," she said instead.

"Details, details." He dried his hands on a nearby dishtowel and rooted around in his pockets as Greg – apparently still pondering the implications of inadvertent convenience – set out plates, cups and silverware. "Aha!" he said, producing a piece of parchment and shoving it under the ferret's nose on one of his trips back to the cabinet.

Greg peered at it nearsightedly. "'Alexander, Lord of Asia'? What does that have to do with anything?!"

"Oh, right; he's the other one, isn't he?" The hamster returned to foraging in his pockets. "I'm sure I have Napoleon's somewhere."

"Do you usually get autographs from invading generals?" Julie asked.

"I like handwriting," he replied. "Invading armies bring interesting handwriting." He wrinkled his nose. "Though cuneiform or not, I didn't like those Assyrians much."

"That's unfortunate," Julie observed.

"Isn't it?" he said. "If I'd known I'd end up being named after them, I would have entered a complaint somewhere."

"Where does one enter complaints about future geographical names?"

"I don't know; I'd think of something."

There was a sudden crash as a glass slipped out of Greg's hand and shattered on the tile. He looked at Julie sheepishly. "Sorry 'bout that," he said. "Just had to make sure I still had it in me." He knelt down and set about picking up the pieces by hand.

"Don't worry;" she replied, slightly irritated but not enough to warrant saying anything about it after-the-fact. With an elemental force of inconvenience in her kitchen, she was probably doing well if her only problem was a broken glass. "They're a dollar each at Best Buy."

"I'm not worried," he said. She watched in fascination as he gathered the broken fragments, large and miniscule, into a pile on the table, and proceeded to try to fit them back together. "I like puzzles," he added, noticing her gaze. "You guys can start, by the way. No need to wait for me."

Julie glanced at Tim, who shrugged, and the two of them sat down to eat.

She had to admit that, for a dingbat elemental hamster, he made surprisingly good waffles.

"Thanks," he replied with his mouth full. It sounded like he said something else after that, but the syllables got completely lost. He swallowed hard and tried again. "So, what's this with you having issues with your life?"

"I don't want to deal with it," she said with irritable succinctness.

"So don't," he suggested. "Take a year or two off." She just looked at him. "Oh, right."

"Things are so simple for you," she said with a sigh.

"Maybe," he said. "But I can't see how that really helps you. What if you didn't want to be a hamster?"

"What if I do?"

He looked at her closely through narrowed eyes as she tried not to laugh at being squinted at by a hamster. "I can't see it," he said finally, shaking his head.

"I – " the ferret began.

"—Be quiet, you don't have an opinion," Tim cut in.

"True," Greg agreed sadly. "But I fixed your cup!" he said to Julie, handing her a glass that was apparently whole and flawless. She blinked.

"Um, thank you?"

"You're welcome." He beamed. "That's what I'm here for; I cause problems and I fix them."

"That's useful, I suppose."

"I should hope not!"

...

"I wouldn't try that," Tim advised. "Laurie would kill you."

"She'd have to find me first."

"How hard would that be?" the hamster asked. "You're not the Raccoon of Furtiveness! Though," he said thoughtfully, "you are a trickster figure. So you could probably hide for a while. But still."

"Fair enough," Greg conceded. "But if she came to kill me, then at least I'd know where she was! Besides, I'm moderately immortal."

"I thought you weren't, really," Julie interrupted. She hoped they weren't actually discussing anything significant enough to need not interrupting, but since she could never tell, she tended to err on the side of assuming their discussion was irrelevant. If she'd been wrong yet, they hadn't let on. "Don't you all just last however long your species does? And vanish or evolve into something else, or whatever?"

"You're mistaking me for a hamster," Greg replied with a grin.

"Never!" she said with the best fake shock she could manage.

"Good!" he said proudly, ignoring Tim's death glare. "But – normal elementals, yeah. But how many ferrets of inconvenience currently exist in nature?"

"None that I've met," she admitted.

"And none that you haven't. Ideas don't work that way. I suppose I could get marginalized out of existence or something, but I don't think anyone cares enough."

"To get rid of inconvenience?" she asked. "Haven't people being trying for ages?"

"Of course. But they need bureaucracy too badly. It's a love-hate relationship, really. You don't know how many self-help-book writers have challenged me to duels. But their publishers always talk them out of it. Or so they say."

"So bureaucracy is your essential ally?" she said, blinking. "I can't picture that."

"Politics makes strange bedfellows." She stared at him. "Sorry," he said quickly; "I didn't mean it THAT way! But anyway, yeah, ideas don't work like that. There's still a Dodo of Something-or-Other around here somewhere, I think."

"Is he really the Dodo of Something-or-Other?" she asked curiously, thankfully distracted completely away from the previous line of conversation. "Or are you just saying that because you can't remember what he's the dodo of?"

"I actually have no idea what he does," Greg said. "But he does exist. I think he was a math professor at one point."

"Wha-?"

"Wha-?, what?"

"Never mind," she said. "Who's Laurie?"

Greg sighed. "She's the Raccoon of Furtiveness, and I've been trying to get a date with her for the past couple of centuries. Without much success."

"Because you can't find her?" Julie asked, trying hard not to grin and probably failing.

"Essentially." He sighed again. "She's not avoiding me, I don't think; she's just elusive like I'm inconvenient. We did try for dinner once sometime in the 1680s, but the restaurant turned out to be closed due to an epidemic of man-eating land snails."

"Man-eating land snails?" she asked incredulously. "Do those exist?"

"No," he said glumly. "I think they created themselves for the purpose. Spiteful creatures."

"If they only existed to inconvenience you, wouldn't that make them your fault?"

"Why don't you just stop while I'm ahead," he suggested.

"What would a man-eating snail even look like?"

"Trust me," he said, "you don't want to know. Those were some very unhappy Bavarian peasants."

"And then there was that Beast of Gevaudan thing," Tim said relentlessly. "And the Boston Molasses Flood. And the Franco-Prussian War."

"Don't remind me," he said. "Can we talk about someone else now?"

"No. Well, you can, but I'm not going to."

"Besides, the Franco-Prussian War was not my fault. It was entirely arranged by Bismark, who has NOTHING of a ferret of inconvenience about him."

"But Napoleon III was your fault."

"Napoleon III was my fault," Greg agreed quietly. "Mostly. But Laurie had nothing to do with it!"

"I know," Tim agreed. "But he was still an evil dweeb!"

"Let's talk about Julie!" Greg said. "How have you been?"

"We already discussed that," she replied. "I'm annoyed and confused. Do you have any suggestions?"

"We settled that already," Tim said. "You're coming with us and we're going to do something or other."

"Like what?"

"Play Parcheesi with the Well-Rested Ammonite?" Greg suggested.

"Ammonites?" Tim said, looking around nervously. "Where?!"

"Not those sort of Ammonites!" Greg said. "Relax!"

"What sort, then?" the hamster demanded.

"The sort I made up just this minute."

"Oh." He relaxed visibly. "Do not joke about Ammonites. Do that again, and I'll dissolve your hat."

The ferret blinked at him. "What did the Ammonites ever do to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, whatever," Greg said, carefully removing his fedora and hiding it behind his back. He turned to Julie. "So, how are you?"

"Still annoyed and confused," she replied, though she couldn't help grinning. "Hey, maybe that's the problem!" she said suddenly.

"What, that you're annoyed and confused?" he asked. "That would do it."

"No," she said. "That I haven't spent enough time around crazy people lately."

"Excuse me?" Tim asked.

"You should be happy; I'm proving you right," she said. "Maybe hanging out with you guys for a week really is what I need."

"I suppose," he said dubiously. "Well, whatever works for you. But we're not crazy people."

"You object to being called crazy?"

"Well," he said with a frown, "by definition I'm normative. But that's not the issue. I am not a crazy person."

"Aha," she said. "I see. Well, I haven't spent enough time around crazy non-people lately, either."
...

School let out for break on a dark, dreary Friday afternoon that radiated Februaryness. Julie packed up her things and headed apprehensively out into the cold, unsure what to expect. She packed her trunk uneventfully, and went to go look around for ideas incarnate as strange people. Or maybe strange ideas incarnate as people.

She found Tim standing at the edge of the school zone, beer in hand, watching everything around him with interest. Julie didn't personally find it very interesting, but she was inspired by the thought that someone might, particularly someone – something? – who'd been around for millennia and seen much more of the world than she likely ever would. Of course, she reflected, anyone who'd been around for millennia and around the world would probably be interested in everything, provided they were still interested in anything at all. But either way, it gave her new appreciation for the world around her.

"Where's Greg?" she asked.

The hamster shrugged broadly. "He's not here on time. I, for one, am absolutely shocked!" He looked over at a gaggle of children being shepherded into a van across the parking lot by a harried-looking mother. "Isn't that the kid who eats crayons?" he asked in a normal, and very audible, tone of voice.

"Shh!" she hissed, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. Tim threw his hands in the air in front of him, backing up sharply as if he thought she might bite, and ran smack into the street sign.

"Hello, Greg," he said without turning around, rubbing his head with an aggrieved expression. "Glad to see you made it."

"Sort of," the ferret replied. He looked from Julie to the hamster and back. "I seem to be on the No-Fly List."

"I'm absolutely shocked," the hamster repeated.

"Can't you just…look like somebody else?" she asked.

"No," he replied emphatically. "Well, yes. But – no."

"What?" She tried her best to assume a conspicuously bewildered expression, which under the circumstances wasn't hard.

"For the same reason he" – he indicated Tim – "won't turn the beer bottle into a Coke bottle so he can stand inside the school zone. It's a matter of principle." The hamster rolled his eyes and took another drink.

"That's bizarre."

"I am bizarre! Haven't you noticed?"

"Yes."

"Besides, I'm sure anyone else I looked like would be equally likely to wind up on the No-Fly List."

She sighed. ""Could you sneak in in a ferret carrier, or something?"

"Clearly you've never tried flying with a ferret."

"No," she admitted. "Nor, does it seem, am I going to. So what do we do now?"

"We could walk," Tim suggested.

"Walk where?"

"France?"

"I can't – " She decided the sentence wasn't even worth finishing.

"What name were you trying to fly under, anyway?" the hamster asked curiously. "Mustela Putorius Furo, or Grigory Rasputin?"

Julie stared. "You try to fly under those?!"

"I usually get through under those," the ferret said proudly. "Inconvenience comes in many forms."