Greg, still wearing his backpack and gloves, stands outside the Fireside Cafe with headphones on and a cassette player in his pocket. Through the open cafe door, Cori the barista -- an androgynous and attractive person with shoulder-length dark hair -- leans on the counter between the register and tip jar. The doorstop holding the door open looks like a small capybara.

Cori's working today. I only know their name from overhearing one of the other baristas say it. I talk to them at least three times a week and I've still never introduced myself.

Q Reynolds, mid-twenties, Black, good-looking with braided hair pulled back and a striped hoodie, comes up behind Greg who is moving his headphones aside.

"Why don't you talk to them, man? Get their number."

Q and Greg are out in the woods. Q looks around while Greg is looking at a compass he's holding in one hand. He holds the small map in his other hand.

"Anyway, you know it would be pointless. Man I'm getting some bad compass wiggle out here."
"It's all the magnets in the NAIL, dude."

Surrounded by trees, Greg glares at the upside-down map.

"The hint is 'trees.' Son of a bitch."