Now, it came to pass that Roby, ariding in the rearparts of the garbage truck, awaited a stopping point at which to debark, and when none came, anxiety failed to blossom in her, for perhaps she was immune to that woe's wiles, but her realization was geared towards the Traycuplessness of her current environs, and so departure became mandatory. Waiting no longer at the point of this epiphany, she sprang—yes, sprang—from the truck's stern and flopped onstreet like a dropped thong. She surveyed.

The state of her surrounds was a hillish street flanked by suburbanesque housing units—well, just hice, I guess, no need to bring full-fledged “units” into this—and no types of people were around. It was early yet, and no one had to go walk their dogs for at least thirty-three years, and the milkman wouldn't come until after, and the newspaperist had already been by, leaving his refuse on every door's step. In this unspliced moment was calmitude.

Roby said, “It seems to me,” way too much, so she didn't say that. Instead, what she said was this: “Hark! Parked cars but no park, though I could go for a lark, or a walk or a swing or a slide in stride! Well, time is cruel, and I would be a fool to ignore the rule I myself taught in school, or learned, if not earned—and at least yearned! I must make it my ends to remeet with my friends, though I know no way to do that today!”

She fround, which is similar to having frowned, but the route to the expression is more circuitous than expected, even when expecting circularity. But she had not the time to ponder deeply her options and engage in a plan to escape the region and be reunote with her friends, for at that moment a jogger certainly named Good Mondale crested the hill and, moving at nearly ninety-nine percent of light speed, collode with Roby. They each were sent sprawling onto the pavement, Roby leaving a gouge twenty-one feet deep in the asphalt, and Good Mondale bursting into flames. Not as a result of the collision, it just so happened that that was when he had his alarm set for.

“Can't you watch your way any better than that?” cried Good Mondale. “Oh, this is bad. Are you hurt? Are you wounded very much? Is your lawyer nearby? Wait—you ain't from these parts, are you?”

“I am not,” said Roby as she extricated herself from the gougement, “but here is a thought. Roby is my name! Is yours the same? I would like to make friends, then begin making amends!”

Good Mondale eyed her warily, eared her hastily, and tongued her—wait, I think I already made this joke. Never mind. The point is, his suspicions were thoroughly aroused—and that was all. But it was enough to ruin his Mondale. I mean, ruin his morning.

Roby had a small bruise.

“A wound, I see,” said Good Mondale. “Well, that's a big problem. I'll have to report this to the police. Showercapsaplenty takes this sort of thing seriously. Oh, god! The paperwork! Yeah, this is a—this is a problem.”

“I am sorry to bother,” said Roby, “and as I see no other, can you take me away? I mean not to stay. To other cities—though yours is pretty—my businesses take me, where lost friends are waiting.”

Good Mondale approached her, and became a loomer, taking a close look at the small bruise Roby had endured. This was an experience no one needed or craved, for proximity to Roby meant the worst of fluids and odors assailed one's personal self, and no amount of martyrdom could buy or sell that. But the bruise was real. Good Mondale fantasized instantly the dire woe due him should he fail to see the matter reported properly.

“But—the paperwork,” he muttered. Which fate was worse?

Roby said, “The paperwork may be shirked—you may be sure we can make it work!”

What Roby lacked in sense she attempted to regain through staminal cheer, and in a lawlesser place like Hoglistwune or Nesodi Iveent, it might have been a fair play, but here it was to be judged with fuller harshness. Good Mondale knew this; Roby, surely, knew nothing. There was a sole option available to the fine jogger.

“Alas!” he said. “I always knew it'd come to this.” He sighed.

From his third-best pocket, Good Mondale pulled forth a mighty shark and, placing it on a tricycle, commanded it to slay Roby utterly—for the paperwork involved in a shark-related slaying was far less tedious than that of joggish collision—and so the shark went forth to make Roby's body become dead, and feast upon her carcass, should it desire—and if not, then to see her remains sold to a novice taxidermist to try to seduce some value from her existence for once.

“Novel friends are here!” said Roby. “This is cause for cheer!”

“Not cheer,” said the shark, “but fear! Notice my weaponry!” The shark withdrew from its sternum a saber of solid glass and a missile of the finest teak—not cheaply bought, and used only direly.

Roby acknowledged the use of the armaments and began to consider the plus side of being dead, but as the shark bore down upon her, she had not yet come to a conclusion, and so, to buy time to ponder the question further, she fled with haste.

“Don't run away, you coward!” said Good Mondale. “It makes us both look bad!” From his second-best pocket he pulled an antediluvian parrot and, placing it on a bicycle, commanded it to follow the shark following Roby, as he himself took the second wheel and went 'long for the ride.

Roby's fleedom was not with great haste or grace, and so she opted for an easier option, and hailed a passing taxish cab. That wasn't illegal on Saturdays, but nonetheless, the taxi driver had better things to be doing.

“I've got better things to be doing,” said the taxi driver, as he tried to think of what they might be. “The wife's due to roast a toast sometime soon—that's one you can reuse.” His mind thus wandering, he ignored Roby and drove on. Roby, though, sought not the confines of the cab in the form if its self, but instead, as it passed by close, she tossed a grappling hook upon its top, where the mattress store was, and the hook snagged on the bike rack in the parking lot. Roby looped the rope around her neck, and as the cab sped thither from Good Mondale's burgeoning circus act, it whisked her away and out of his reaches.

“Well, this is thoroughly distressing,” said Good Mondale. “The paperwork for the collision, and her escapism? That all falls on me! What a monstrosity!”

“Don't forget,” said the antediluvian parrot, “the unsatisfying shark deployment.”

“Shark,” said the shark.

Good Mondale sighed. “Get my pencil and a vial of blood. Let's get it over with.”

As Roby clumb to her feet, the wind in her “hair,” the automated door opened for her with a dulcet tone.

“The door permits me!” said Roby. “At last, I am worthy! I have found a place willing to make space for my self to be, and let us see how the promises of the premises develop this circumstance!” It wasn't really a very good Roby rhyme, but perhaps she's finally breaking down. She doesn't have much longer, after all.

She entered the mattress store, as one does, and also as one does in a mattress store, beheld the dearth of customers and overabundance of stock, especially in the form of the myriad floor models. In true sitcom fashion, she tried them, each and every one, and, shattering the format originally prescribed in the Goldilocks tropes, failed to find any one of them satisfactory in the slightest.

“No bed has been made that can capture my shape,” said Roby. “What a shame to miss the best nest to kiss, or have crackers and cheese while watching too much TV!”

“A shame indeed,” said Umble Opan. “There is no place made for you. Nor shall any be—not this day, nor any other.”

Roby looked up with a smile as the great helipad checked her out. “A day of friendening! Oh, let it be never-end...ening.”

“All things end,” said Umble Opan. “Even mattresses. Especially mattresses. Do you know that professionals say you should replace your mattress every eight years? Ha! I scoff at that particular nonsense. No. Your mattress should be replaced every eight millennia. Life is too short to readjust to a new mattress, so says I.”

“What is one?” said Roby. “Is it fun?”

Umble Opan nodded widely instead of rolling any of his eyes. “Yes, of course! A mattress is only used for fun. I mean, look at this tremendous thing. Bulky, foolish, white. What other purpose could it be put to? Burning? Yes, of course, as can all things. A stuffage spot for money and cash? Why, there's none better! And, fun? Fun?”

“No,” said Roby, and—

Now the door to the Pizza Hut opened, and Ramblehop came out all afluster. He had a million patriches clinging to him, following in his wake, falling off and being scattered, forgotten. He failed to behold Roby and went straight to Umble Opan. Clutching too much, he said, “They are coming.”

“They always are,” said Umble Opan.

“But, now, they are coming,” said Ramblehop.

Roby looked from one to the other, then back to the one and at last to the other. She said, “Though I am dumb when it comes to coming and fun, this mattress treated me justly, and so I must see if help can be given from me so that woes can be stricken from thee!”

Now Ramblehop beheld her, and all his problems were solved at once. “Yes! Solutions abound. Now, here!”

“What, here?” said Roby.

“Wait there,” said Ramblehop. He scurried into the air compressor to collect some prized possessions. Umble Opan was left alone with the Roby.

“Were you planning on purchasing any mattresses today?” said Umble Opan, as required by the situation.

Roby shook her head.

“Of course not. You're penniless. No matter. You'll have all the mattresses you can eat shortly. Welcome to businessment!”

Now Ramblehop reemerged, and he held with him a small cake, a still-bottled treasure map, and a vat of meatballs. These were everything but randomized items—except the cake was thrown in late and the meatballs were pretty irrelevant. He approached Roby with them, as the lights grew in scope and capacity, and his shouting voice was unhearable. The roar was already approaching. Their time grew short.

Umble Opan took some of the cake and he and Ramblehop ate it together. This symbolized nothing, but the cake was oddly delicious. No preparation, no packaging. It had been there the whole time—not even stale! Moist cake. Soft frosting. It was a delight to every sense. Even the gods made a poorer cake than this. And, in cake's name, long ago, there sat in the sink—well, we can't have everything. We can't have anything. And now it hurts more.

The meatballs were more or less simply dealt with. They gave those to Roby, and she ate them, and oh! What a mess the sauce made on her! The meatballs were consumed with ease, but the sauce was as sprayed as the remains of the Challenger astronauts, and she wore most of it, and the mattresses—God rest their souls—bore the rest. They lay with dignity, painless, and unafraid of the worst of stains. They uncounted fear. They questioned. Would Roby know their worth? Could she see their use? No, she was like a child of a person, blanked, not blanket, and made out like a pit.

As for the treasure map—this was perplexing, as flight was locked to them all.

“Is this a mistake?” said Umble Opan.

“No,” said Ramblehop, uncertainly. “No, it cannot be. Stay calm, and hold yourself up.”

“Therein lies the danger,” said Umble Opan, raising his eyes to the ceiling fan that loomed o'erhead, and which made no reaction to their admission of terror.

“Have you better plans?” said Ramblehop.

Umble Opan had no better plans, but was not ready and able to make the promise. “We could—” he began, but quailed at the thought of what was to come.

But the time for wallowing came to a close here. The doors were undone, their original packaging retrieved from behind the counter, the components returned, one by one. The glass was placed in the sea and, in a thousand years, became sand—though this is cold comfort for those who would die today. The screws, it turned out, were all unused. There was no need to wash them. They went back home, where they had come from, and wondered if their lives had even happened.

THIS IS THE POLICE, came a sound. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.

Roby looked to Umble Opan and Ramblehop, wondering if they had heard it, too—a strange thing for Roby to do and think, since she had not heard herself in the place of the first. She'd always been a cheater, though. We tried to take that away from her, but, as usual...

As usual...

THIS IS THE POLICE.

Umble Opan and Ramblehop glanced at one another. They'd probably have to give the treasure map to Roby. Could Roby really do it? It seemed unfair—to them, and to her. It was a lovely burden that she would only destroy. Maybe she should.

Maybe I should.

“We'll have to make a decision someday,” said Ramblehop.

Umble Opan shrugged—ah, no, not a shrug. I misread the gesture, sorry. He sagged. The strength of his body left him. The strength of his spirit was spent. He sagged. He was a sag, through and through. “Must we? I've never deigned to—not for a while. Haven't you considered the procedure of a hand of cards? You're calling me a cheater!”

“Cheaters win,” said Ramblehop.

“Is there not another goal?” said Umble Opan.

I'm getting ahead of myself. —ah! If only.

Now, Roby was becoming dazed, obviously, though she didn't hear things the way I did, she didn't see things the way I did. By now a mist had entered the mattress store, and things were becoming tinted reddish. Roby, still smeared with meatball sauce—there's probably a technicaller name for that, but, in these trying times, we have to make do—lost touch with Umble Opan and Ramblehop. She can't hear what I hear, but I want to tell her nonetheless. There's a place she can go that will turn the red to blue. Does she need to know that? Does anyone?

Roby reached out and took the treasure map. The glass bottle containing the treasure map. It was heavier than it looked.

OPEN FIRE.

When Roby opened her eyes—

“Roby,” said a cubic lawyer. “You've been salvaged.”

“A use for refuse,” Roby said meekly. She could not move any part of her body, but the head is not part of the body in some circles, and Roby was not part of anything, and parted from nothing. She will bathe in the waves and drink deeply and break.

“Indeed, it's necessary,” said the same cubic lawyer. “A job needs doing, and you'll do. See here!”

“A jobbed Roby?” said Roby softly. “So, close to glory.”

“I said, see here!” said that same cubic lawyer.

Roby's senses began to return to her. She beheld her surroundings, as they beheld her in return. She, at currently, was experiencing trapness, seized snugly by bonds and straps in a way she understood. She looked hither and yon and beheld little, for the room was—

The room was a high place in a tall tower, small and snug, the roof low, the light dim, and unadorned but made of gray, and Roby's place was enchaired, snared quite for no one's safety. Before her was the only window, and as the wall was thick with thickness, the view granted was of utter limitations.

She peered.

“I see not a lot—there is only a rock.”

“Don't get cute,” said that one cubic lawyer. “There is only a rock. It is your rock.”

“A rock of Roby!” said Roby. “Akin to a trophy.”

“If you wish forgiveness to ever occur, maintain your duty endlessly. At the rock, look. If an event occurs, you must report to the main office with utter posthaste! And no letter-sending! We want the words from your mouth.” Is this understood?

Roby acquiesced to her fate with glee for to have a job at last! She'd been unemployed since the school burnt down, or whatever, and all had become doomed. This was where redemption rebegan. This was where she could start fresh, and try again, and forget that anything had ever happened.

This was the beginning.

Roby watched the rock.