When I finally wake up the next day, the previous night feels more like a dream than reality. I roll over, squinting at my phone. Through my blurred vision, I note the time: one pm. I slept for a solid eleven hours.

I pocket my phone, stumbling out of bed and into the kitchen. A gourmet fruit bowl sits in my fridge, another complimentary item Tabitha gifted me. I pull it out along with the yogurt and bread I brought from my previous apartment. While my toast is heating in the oven, I explore the kitchen. Four crystal bowls and plates await in the first cabinet. The second contains a pristine set of wine glasses, some tall, others short and stout.

Cabinet three surprises me with the first taste of reality I've gotten since arriving. Among four white mugs and six espresso shots, there is a mug that looks like it's made of legos and another that says "University of Florida" across it.

"Huh." I peer inside the drawers next. All sorts of kitchen tools populate them, not to mention the most packed silverware container I've seen in my life. I grab a fork and spoon out.

A burning smell emanates through the kitchen. The toast. I rip the oven door open, waving away smoke as I rush to find a pot holder.

How is there not a single pot holder in this kitchen? I shake my head, quickly pulling the sweatshirt I'm wearing over my satin pajama set and using it to pull the oven tray out. I flick the toast into my bowl before opening a window to clear the smoke.

Once the kitchen is cleaned up a little more, I sit down at the bar, stabbing a piece of dragon fruit to eat with the artificial-tasting peach yogurt. I pull my phone from my short's pocket, scrolling through my notifications. At the top, Saige sent a message saying,

"I'm working right now, but PLEASE call me if you need anything."

I smile, type a quick reply, then scroll through the rest of the notifications. There are some from Instagram, a news story about another local millionaire being murdered, updates from YouTubers I follow, and the weather forecast. I move on to my emails next. My fork pierces a perfect cube of mango. It is the sweetest, juiciest mango I've had in my entire life.

At the top of my inbox is a message sent from Tabitha this morning. Steeling myself with more mango, I open it.

Cleo,

Thank you for retrieving that message for me. I need you to attend the Ink and Parchment Festival being held tomorrow at the Sorrel Gardens. There's a booth there called "Ancient Carvings." It's number thirty-two on the map I attached, which shows all the booth locations. I need you to arrive as soon as the gates open at eight am. Once you locate the booth, pick up every piece of wood until you find one that sends pulses through your hand. Money is no object when purchasing the wooden piece. You can pay with the cash in the drawer on your bedside table.

Please note that you must not bring me a replacement. I need this one specifically, please and thank you. You'll know the wood when you feel it. It should feel almost like a heart beat when you touch it. If someone buys it first, note as many details of their appearance as possible.

Tabitha

What the actual heck. Tabitha expects me to suddenly be an expert in finding random pieces of wood? She saw my resume. I have almost zero credentials to do anything, much less evaluate pulses in metal. She couldn't have given me a crash course in this yesterday at her apartment, or at least mentioned it to me?

I shake my head. I guess I'll have to give this my best shot.

🕸 ✩⋆｡°🕸｡°⋆✩🕸

"Wow, it is warm today." Saige fans herself with the pamphlet we received upon entering the Sorrel Gardens. She usually sets her work schedule so she has Sundays off, one of the perks of being an Uber driver.

"And it'll only get worse as the day goes on." Sweat beads on my neck. I wish that I tied my brown hair up so it isn't clinging to my skin, trapping the warmth. All the more incentive to find what we're looking for.

We pass by rows of booths. Some are selling unique pens and quills while others display hand-made journals. There's even a tattooing studio. I follow the map from Tabitha's email to a station with a sign reading "Ancient Carvings." A petite woman about my age stands behind the plaid-covered tables. Black curtain bangs frame her slender face, and her thin lips upturn when she sees us.

"Hi, are you interested in buying carving wood or supplies?"

"What exactly is carving wood?" Saige asks. She glances at me in her peripheral, and I slip to the other side of the table so the woman's back is to me. Our plan works perfectly, Saige distracts while I search.

And now to find a piece of wood. I survey the table, covered in slabs of all shapes, colors, and sizes. I lift an oak-colored square, turning it to the sun like I'm visually inspecting it. My fingers feel exactly the same, no pulse detected, so I place it down and move on to a small log.

This will take all day.

I set it down, then casually brush my hand over the pieces, trying my best to look casual. I probably look insane, my hand bouncing from wooden slab to slab. My eyes dart around, but I don't detect anyone watching.

The first side of the table is done. I don't think any of the pieces had a pulse or heart beat, or whatever Tabitha wants to call it. Then again, I've never looked for such a thing, so maybe I missed it.

As I round the corner to side two, I notice a man approach the booth. He has dark brown hair and wears sunglasses over his eyes. His attire is a little formal for an ink festival, wearing a cuffed button-down shirt and trousers. Taking large strides, he passes along the table's edge, hand running across the wooden items. He then doubles back to inspect the middle ones more closely. His large hand fans out to check multiple at once.

Wow. That's a good strategy.

It then occurs to me that I'm not the only one looking for the pulsing wood. And Tabitha warned that I must bring it to her first. My suspicions arise once more, but I tamp them down. I can puzzle out what the wood is and why others are after it. For now, I just need to find it first.

I focus again on my task, following the same strategy as the man. Every so often, I glance in his direction. He's much quicker than me, already on the second side. I guess the wood isn't there. That's one less place for me to check. I wonder if he realizes we're looking for the same thing. His head is either pointed straight ahead or down, but the sunglasses obscure where his eyes are trained.

Saige, the perfect distraction, pretends to see a wooden block on another side of the table, pulling the woman away from the front. I swoop in to search. My fingertips skim the roughened surfaces, tiny spokes pricking at my skin. From across the table, the man approaches, completely ignoring the side I just searched.

He's onto me.

My heart rate picks up. I move faster, hopping from big piece to mini piece to round piece to flat piece to—

A thump courses through my fingers. I pause, going back to a slender board, slightly wider on the bottom than on the top. There it is, a subtle pulsing through my hand, like a living, beating heart. I lift the board just as the man rounds the corner of the table.

"Hey, that's a cool looking board you have there," he says.

My brow furrows, though internally, my heart is beating double that of the board. "Thanks?"

"Mind if I take a look?" he asks. "I can always tell a sturdy piece when I see one."

"Oh, it's alright." I clutch the board tighter. "I'm just looking for something to display fruit on."

"Fruit?" The man's eyebrow arches over his shades.

"Yeah." I chuckle nervously, then hurry over to the sales woman. "Hi there! I'd like to buy this."

"Sure!" she says. "That'll be thirty dollars." I hand over the cash, then head away from the booth, not too fast so as to attract attention. As we pass the booth, a person barrels at me. I yelp, my hands releasing the board in surprise. My eyes blink at the man from before.

"Oh, I'm so sorry about that." He bends down to pick up the board from the ground, but I'm faster. I snatch it from the ground just as his fingers graze the side.

"No harm done," I exhale. He gives a strange, slight bow with one arm behind his back, the other stretched out. Then, he hurries off.

It is only then that I realize that there is no longer a pulse emanating from the board in my hands. I look down, frantically inspecting it. The sides are rough, not sanded smooth like the previous. The sides are slightly curved inward as well.

"Saige!" I gasp.

"What's wrong?"

Tears fill my eyes. I can not believe I just messed up my first errand.

"He switched the boards."