Brian’s laughing as they drag each other up the stairs of Pat’s apartment, their hips bumping with every step. “Am I making you the worst neighbor in the world?” Brian whispers loudly, while Pat tries his best to get his key in the lock. Brian’s leaning against the wall, wiping at his eyes. “We can make it worse,” Pat says, and he can feel himself grinning. “We can make it so much worse.”

This was not his bedroom; this was definitely not his apartment. It was a single room, with a small table across from the bed and a fireplace on the back wall. When he looked out the window, he could see evergreen trees and the chatty bird who wanted everyone to know what his plans for the day were. The walls and floor were plain wood, and a small painting of a tree hung on the wall. At the end of the bed—which was not Brian’s normal bed—Pat looked about two minutes away from an anxiety attack. Mentally, Brian gave Pat a pass for what he would usually consider an overreaction. “Are we,” Brian started, then tried again: “Is this—?” Pat nodded, holding out a small yellow pouch with a parsnip drawn on the front and an open letter addressed to Brian.