Narro rode slowly toward the nearby village, relieved to be free from Reralt for a few hours.

  They had agreed Reralt would stay at camp, defending it from a theoretical pixie invasion. Narro was quite sure that, if pixies existed, they wouldn’t come near Reralt unless under mortal duress.

  He translated the agreement as: Reralt didn’t want to go to town.

  The ride through the hilly landscape was cathartic. The quiet made Narro hum to himself.

  A small blue bird landed on his shoulder.

  “Well, hello, little bird,” Narro said playfully. “Need a rest? Stay as long as you like.”

  “AUNT NELLY HAS A NEW POT,” the bird chirped in his ear.

  “What?”

  “DAVID STONETHROWER DISLIKES LARGE PEOPLE.”

  “I… I don’t care,” Narro muttered, already regretting his hospitality. He tried to shoo it away.

  “LEAVE ME ALONE.”

  “NEW PROOD DRINK — THE BEST WAY TO STAY HYDRATED!”

  Narro fell silent, imagining several satisfying ways to kill small birds. “Next time I bring the Void,” he grumbled.

  “DO YOU WANT TO CHIRP?” the bird chirped cheerfully.

  That’s when Narro realized: these weren’t normal bird thoughts.

  “Why?” he asked.“Are you enchanted? Cursed? Or just an avatar of poor taste?”

  “TO RELIEVE ANXIETY.”

  “I didn’t have anxiety until recently,” Narro muttered.

  “TO MAKE YOUR VOICE HEARD.”

  “I don’t need to be heard,” Narro said. “I don’t think Aunt Nelly needed to be heard. Or David. Or the Prood drink. You only tweet garbage.”

  “AND THE NEWS,” the bird chirped, beginning a bulletin:

  “RESEARCH SHOWS THE HEALTHIEST SNACK IS CORN COOKIES.”

  “Wait,” Narro frowned. “Corn cookies are sweet and terribly unhealthy.”

  “DEPENDS ON RESEARCH,” the bird replied. “THIS STUDY SPONSORED BY CORN CO.”

  Schplut.

  Narro squished the bird with his hand.

  He saw the village rising over the next hill and quietly cursed the bird for squandering his last moments of sanity.

  ***

  Narro walked through the market.

  Reralt, as always, had eaten the entire fruit supply in one go, rendering his evening yogurt routine particularly untraditional. Narro reached for an orange from a nearby stall.

  “Beep,” came a sound from behind him.

  He turned. A woman in a bright blue apron stood holding a notepad.

  “What are you doing?” Narro asked, curious.

  “I am your shopping assistant,” the woman replied cheerfully. “Every time you take something, I write it down. Saves time at the register.”

  Perplexed, Narro slowly put the orange back on the stall.

  “Buup!” the woman shouted, dramatically crossing something off her pad.

  “This is very annoying,” Narro muttered. “Please stop. I’m just browsing.”

  “You agreed when you walked into the market,” the woman said, pointing at a sign near the entrance.

  “Why are there signs in this realm? No one can read?” Narro asked, genuinely bothered.

  “I know,” she replied brightly. “That’s why we have a man to explain it. Just tap him.”

  Narro sighed and decided to ignore her. He only needed a few small items, anyway.

  He picked up a single blueberry and tasted it.

  “Beep,” the woman chirped. “One blueberry.”

  Narro gave her a look and barely managed to swallow both the berry and his comment.

  Then he took a small handful of blueberries. The woman rapidly tallied them.

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  “Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep,” she recited, flipping through her notepad.

  Okay, Narro thought, suddenly malicious. It had something to do with living under Reralt’s dictatorship—whenever he had the rare opportunity to make decisions, he apparently abused it.

  He picked up an apple. Waited for the beep. Put it back. Waited for the “buup.” Picked it up again. Returned it. Again and again—twenty, thirty times.

  The woman was rapidly losing her cheerful demeanor.

  Then he took a nectarine and placed it among the peaches. Picked up a peach and set it among the nectarines. It worked. The woman had visible trouble telling them apart.

  Encouraged, he began juggling nectarines, peaches, oranges, and mandarins—wearing a big smile on his face.

  The other shoppers stopped and watched the concert of beeps and buups with amusement. Clearly, this system wasn’t especially beloved.

  And then he saw it.

  A whole department filled with different types of potatoes, onions, and beans.

  “Please, sir,” the woman pleaded faintly.

  Narro went nuts.

  Fifteen minutes later, he walked away satisfied. The woman had given up entirely.

  Now, finally, he could go buy his fruit.

  ***

  “Where’s your shopping assistant?” the man at the register asked.

  Narro pointed at a woman sitting on the ground, sipping from a flask. “Crashed,” he said flatly.

  “Huh. Happens a lot these days,” the man nodded, then began tallying Narro’s fruit.

  “Do you think it should be mandatory?” Narro asked, cautiously.

  “Well, 100% of our shoppers liked it, so yes. Saves us a lot of trouble,” the man replied, punching in totals. Narro paid without protest.

  “You can fill in the form—tell us if you liked it or not,” the man said, gesturing to a clipboard with a single name on it.

  Narro raised an eyebrow. “There’s only one name.”

  “Yes,” the man said proudly. “100% of our shoppers who filled in the form liked it.”

  “No one here can write,” Narro muttered, already giving up inside.

  “No system is perfect, sir.”

  Narro waved him off and hurried toward his horse, desperate to flee this deeply insane village.

  ***

  “I’m sorry, sir?” chirped a high-pitched voice behind him.

  Narro cursed under his breath. He had almost made it to his horse.

  “Yes, how can I help you?” he said automatically—he had been raised to be polite.

  “Can I interest you in Billcoins?” asked the boy standing in front of him. A boy, not quite a man yet, wearing a charcoal-black suit and speaking in a voice still negotiating its path toward adulthood.

  “What’s that?” Narro asked, completely uninterested, but unable to resist.

  “It’s a new currency, sir. Very exciting. You see, you buy this code from me, and then, when you need money, you sell the code again.” A well-rehearsed pitch. Too well-rehearsed.

  “Why? What’s wrong with gold or silver?” Narro still wanted to run, but this had crossed into a level of ridiculousness that demanded engagement.

  “Well, Billcoins are easier to carry and less likely to get stolen,” the boy explained, holding up a single piece of paper with a scribbled code.

  Narro nodded. That made sense. “And I can use them like gold?”

  “Well, no sir. First, you need to sell them.”

  “But… you said it was currency.”

  “Yes, but you can’t pay with it.”

  “So I need to sell this currency for real currency, and then I can pay?”

  “Yes, sir. The price is expected to go up in the short term, even!”

  “It’s not a steady price?”

  “Well, no sir. It’s based on supply and demand—just like gold. If more people want it, it costs more.”

  “More gold?” Narro started to see the logic unraveling. “Isn’t one gold piece always worth one gold piece?”

  “Well… gold is not the best currency example.”

  “We only have gold as currency,” Narro said, watching the boy lose the internal debate.

  “And Billcoins,” the boy replied.

  “Which are worth what people give for them?” Narro raised an eyebrow. “Can I sell the code in every town?”

  “No, sir. Don’t worry, it’s written in a ledger somewhere that the code belongs to you. Until you sell it, of course.”

  “And I cannot read this ledger?”

  “No, sir. It requires a special skill.”

  “So I buy a piece of paper for ten gold coins, and when I sell it… it might be worth more gold?”

  “Yes! Or less. If more people are selling than buying, you know, supply and demand.”

  “How do you know how much it’s worth?”

  “Well… how much are you willing to pay for it?”

  “Nothing. It’s a piece of paper.”

  “Ha! Then I’m not willing to sell it for that price, sir. I want to sell it for ten gold coins.”

  “Why would I buy it for ten gold coins?” Narro asked.

  “That’s just how it works, sir. You buy it and only sell it for twenty. That’s a hundred percent profit.”

  “Who’s going to buy it for twenty gold coins?” Narro paused. “How much did you pay for it?”

  “Five gold coins, sir.”

  “And now you want ten. But nobody’s buying it because… you still have it.”

  “Well yes, sir. It’s a niche market.”

  Narro narrowed his eyes. “Were you swindled, and now you’re trying to make a career out of it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy admitted, deflated.

  Narro sighed. “Have a peach.” He handed the boy a nectarine from his bag and mounted his horse.

  “You’d have to be crazy to fall for that one,” he muttered, riding off.

  He pitched a dream both light and thin,

  A code to trade, a way to win.

  But Narro saw through all the flair—

  A peach has more intrinsic care.

  For gold or fruit or common sense,

  Don’t buy what lives in present tense.

  Fall for whatever you like. If I had any solid financial advice, I’d be writing different stories.

  Call it Cunningham’s Cousin—you know, the troll who never fact-checks, just rage-baits.

  So go ahead, share it.

  And if they’re furious?

  That’s on me.