[At this point, the narrative realized that it had been neglecting the other five characters for too long. And with Dirk’s attention elsewhere, the narrative shook free from the stranglehold he’d previously had on it, and it began to stretch its legs. Wander around a bit. “Let’s see what Acorn’s up to,” the narrative thought to itself. Acorn was still freaking the fuck out. “Okay, not up to that much,” the narrative thought. “How about Pawnee and Jeanne Betancourt? That could be interesting. Maybe we’re finally addressing the fact that Pawnee is simultaneously a town and a girl. Like, what’s up with that? It kind of switches back and forth, and sometimes it’s both at once… I never asked about it, but it’s been bugging me for a while. Oh, and I should also check them out because that Betancourt woman apparently wrote me? But only half of me?? I don’t really know what’s going on anymore.” “…population 79,218. Incorporated in 1819.” Pawnee was red in the face/municipality. “Median household income: $38,360. Sister city to Boraqua, Venezuela. Current mayor: Walter Gunderson. Official city tree: Indiana Common Shrub. Read my lips: Pawnee Motherfucking Indiana.” Betancourt stood tall and haughty, fighting back, refusing to be cowed anymore by this city/child. “Lulu Motherfucking Sanders,” she countered. “Short for Lucinda. Fifth grader at Wiggins Elementary, homeroom teacher Mr. Livingston. Caretaker of the pony Snow White, who is owned by Mr. and Mrs. Baxter.” “Neither one is even listening to the other,” the narrative realized. “Looks like they’re just in a holding pattern until other stuff’s resolved. God. This story sucks right now. Everything’s gone tits-up. I guess I’ll check on the other two girls. Even though they’re both just kind of lying over there on the ground. Now that I think of it, the ground hasn’t been very well described, really. It’s just grey and misty. Like, does it have grass? Is it dirt? So dumb. You know what, I’m deciding that it’s snow. There. That’s canon now. Snow.” Pam had two fingers on Anna’s neck, monitoring the girl’s weak pulse. Pam was whispering things to her that were so private and passionate that even the newly-liberated narrative couldn’t listen in. Free indirect discourse holds no sway over those freer and more indirect than it. In a story full of secrets and complexities, maybe the most mysterious character of all is the most human: Pam Crandal. Anna’s eyes were still wide open, but they were no longer white. Now, they were rapidly changing, flickering quickly between different hues, different sizes, different degrees of brightness and cloudiness. It was as if the eyes of dozens of different people were fighting for dominance inside the body of this one small girl. It was terrifying. “Hey, what the fuck are you doing over there?” Dirk shouted to the narrative. “Get back inside my head! Christ. I can’t leave you alone for two goddamn minutes.” The narrative meekly complied. It also decided that it would never wander off on its own again, because doing so was as confusing as it was self-indulgent. It would be best, the narrative thought, to treat this sequence as a stylistic flourish that isn’t plot-significant. Just the flailing of an author who can’t think of a natural way to handle so many characters in the same place, so he resorts to weird bullshit in the hopes no one will notice that it’s masking incompetence.] #DetectivePony