“Ya see, Sandy?” Bunnymund is saying. “Quit your worrying. The kid says he’s fine.” And almost, it ends there. Almost, they go their separate ways and let it stand for another four years, or another three hundred, for even Sanderson wonders whether he has been mistaken, after all. But Jack is agreeing with the Guardian of Hope, carrying obliviously onward. “Am I ever,” the boy says, fervently. “The 21st century’s great. You wouldn’t believe what people just throw out these days.” The admission comes like a wave striking rocks on a stony shore; it raises icy splashes of dread wherever its spray hits. Three horrified stares – and one that is not so terribly surprised – turn to the boy’s face. The spirit of winter falters to a stop, the reaction not the one he had anticipated. “What?” he asks.

"Thankfully," says Ignis, "the spiders in this area aren’t of the venomous variety." Prompto perks up, and sets a paper bag of cookware on top of a rock. "Well, that's a relief." "Certain other species," says Ignis, "are not nearly so benign." Noct laughs a little at Prompto's face, which is caught somewhere between terror and disbelief. "C'mon, Specs, quit trolling him. He's gonna wish he didn't come."