She pouts—an almost weaponized move—eyes going so wide and glossy they might just pop loose and skitter across the dirt like marbles.

  "Just one bite... please, Master?"

  Master.

  Right.

  Still fits about as well as a wool sweater two sizes too small and twice as itchy.

  I don't lower the stick. If anything, my grip tightens, fingers aching around the smoothed wood.

  "A bite of what, exactly?"

  The words crawl out slower than I'd like, heavy with the kind of suspicion that comes from a lifetime of bad choices and knowing damn well I'm about to make another.

  She smiles, all mischief and sharp teeth tucked behind faux-innocence, the look of a kid about to boost candy from a corner store. Her tail flicks—once, twice—a clean, slicing motion that cuts the air like a knife.

  "Food, Master," she chirps, practically buzzing out of her skin. "The food you made."

  I tilt my head just enough to eyeball the raccoons loitering at the ragged edges of the campfire’s sputtering light.

  They’re busy not being helpful—trading glances, twitching their whiskers in this weird, offbeat unison like some grubby little dance troupe that got kicked off the talent show circuit.

  The scruffiest one, the one with more bald spots than fur, raises a paw, shrugs like he's carrying the weight of a thousand poor decisions, and rasps out,

  "Don’t look at us, pal."

  Yeah. Great. If the sketchy woodland mafia isn’t backing me, that’s probably a sign from the gods. And not a good one.

  Something jabs my knee. Sharp. Quick.

  I jerk back, head snapping down—and come face to face with a potato.

  Well. Potato-adjacent.

  Half-frozen, half-thawed, and looking way too self-aware for something that’s technically garnish.

  It elbows me again. Or hips me. Hard to tell, considering enchanted tubers don’t exactly come with user manuals.

  "If I may..." the potato drawls, in a voice so buttery and posh it might've been plucked straight from a BBC period drama. "If the lady wishes to dine, perhaps a bargain can be struck."

  I blink. Twice. Very slowly.

  Because of course. Of course when the universe decides to jump me in a dark alley, it sends a talking potato dressed for tea with the Queen.

  The girl’s eyes gleam, all hope and hungry teeth, and the campfire’s crackle feels too loud, too close. The scent of burnt stew clings to the back of my throat. The raccoons breathe louder.

  The world squeezes in tight, and my gut shrivels into a hard, ugly knot.

  The warning hammers through my chest like war drums.

  But my mouth—always the weak link—flaps open anyway.

  "And what exactly are we bargaining with? Spare buttons? Broken dreams?"

  Sir Tuberton the Third, I mentally christen him, coughs into an invisible handkerchief.

  "Your hospitality, sir. It is a rare vintage in these lands."

  Perfect. I’m about to get hustled by a nightgown-wearing anime girl and a starch aristocrat with better manners—and probably a better credit score—than me.

  The girl nods, solemn like she's swearing an oath. Her ears twitch.

  "Just a little, Master. Please?"

  The fire flares, tossing jagged shadows across her face. For a second—half a heartbeat—there's no childlike pleading there.

  Just hunger.

  A wolfish glint, sharp enough to cut.

  My grip tightens. Stick raised halfway between threat and sad, confused warning flag. Sweat crawls down the back of my neck in slow, traitorous rivulets.

  Somewhere behind me, the raccoons start edging away.

  Their scrappy leader mutters, "We ain't gettin' paid enough for this."

  Yeah, buddy. Me neither.

  I pull a breath, thick with ash and damp night air, and roll my shoulders like I’m about to square up against something bigger, meaner, and a hell of a lot hungrier than me.

  "Alright," I grunt. "One bite. No more."

  She practically explodes with joy, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a kid who just got permission to shotgun Pixy Stix for breakfast.

  "Thank you, thank you, Master!" she sings, voice high and breathless, like gratitude alone might slingshot her into orbit.

  I blink. Once. Twice. Real slow, like maybe if I move carefully enough, I’ll dodge whatever emotional tornado we’ve just blundered into.

  "Right. Yeah. Don’t thank me," I mutter, jerking a thumb at the starchy traitor beside me. "Thank Mr. Potato Head over here."

  The potato puffs up, skin creaking like old leather, looking for all the world like a toad who’s about to file a formal complaint.

  "Sir Spudsworth, if you please," it says, voice dripping wounded pride like an outvoted aristocrat at a corporate shareholders meeting.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, grinding the heel of my palm into the spot where I swear a migraine’s starting to hatch.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Fine. Sir Spudsworth. You happy now?"

  "Ecstatic," Sir Spudsworth says, grim as a gravedigger.

  Across from me, she whirls toward him, eyes going wide and glossy, the way some people look at miracle healings or clearance sales.

  "Thank you, Mr. Potato Head!" she chirps, pure and unfiltered as sunrise through glass.

  I try—God, do I try—to keep a straight face.

  But it leaks out anyway: a strangled snort that stutters into the clearing like a dying lawnmower.

  Somewhere off to the right, a raccoon claps a paw over its snout and wheezes.

  She scoops Sir Spudsworth up and hugs him so hard I brace instinctively, half-expecting mashed potatoes to squelch out between her fingers.

  His little arms flail wildly, stubby and helpless, while his face locks into a silent scream that screams existential crisis louder than words ever could.

  "Hold up!" I bark, waving both hands like I’m trying to land a plane—or ward off culinary disaster.

  "You’re not about to make tater tots outta him, are you?"

  She freezes mid-squeeze, blinking at me, head cocked like I just asked her to recite pi backwards.

  "What are those?"

  I sigh, long and slow, the noise sagging out of me like a tire giving up on life.

  "Never mind. Forbidden knowledge. Ancient evil. Best left buried."

  I rake a hand through my hair. It feels half-singed from the fire, half-glued to my scalp by cold sweat.

  The night presses in—thick with woodsmoke, damp earth, and the musky, ever-present stank of wet raccoon fur.

  I square my shoulders, swallowing down the last shreds of my dignity.

  "So. About this deal."

  Her whole face lights up, radiant enough that I have to squint like I'm staring into high beams.

  "Oh! Right!"

  And then—

  Without warning—

  She grabs the zipper of her onesie.

  A heartbeat. Frozen. Time breaking apart like thin ice under a doomed hiker.

  None of us move.

  Not me.

  Not the raccoons.

  Not the rabbit. Not the Squirrels.

  Not even Sir Spudsworth, whose beady little eyes stretch wide with pure, primal horror.

  "NO!" we all scream at once, a ragged, pitiful choir of panic and regret.

  Paws and hands slap over eyes. Claws rake down faces. Sir Spudsworth ejects himself from her arms with a panicked squeal, his tiny potato body cartwheeling into the dirt.

  I spin so fast I damn near give myself whiplash, slapping a hand over my face, waving the other blindly at the night like that'll somehow shove the memory back into the dark corners of my skull.

  Somewhere behind me, a squirrel whimpers, "My innocence... it’s gone..."

  "I thought we were negotiating for food, not trauma!" I shout, my voice cracking into an octave I haven't touched since 'awkward middle school talent show' era.

  She freezes mid-zip, staring at me like I’m the lunatic here.

  “What? What’s wrong?” she asks, all wide-eyed and earnest, like she hasn’t just sucker-punched every remaining brain cell I own.

  I lower my hand just enough to glare at her over my fingers—the same look I used to reserve for runaway goats and engines coughing their guts out in the dead of winter.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I rasp, voice already worn thin.

  She tilts her head, ears twitching, tail swaying, her whole vibe some unholy mix between a mischievous cat and a toddler caught elbow-deep in a cookie jar.

  "You said deal," she chirps, like that explains anything. "This is how we seal it, Master. With a contract."

  A long beat stretches between us, taut as a wire about to snap.

  The fire crackles behind me, sending up thin ribbons of smoke that sting my eyes. Somewhere out in the woods, a cricket starts up, its nervous chirping sounding way too close to an SOS.

  "You... what?" I manage, my voice vaulting a full octave higher than I'm proud of. I gape at her, mouth flapping like a beached fish. "Contracts don’t require—" I flap a hand in her general direction, "—nudity!"

  She blinks, slow and bewildered, like I just claimed water wasn’t wet.

  "Oh... really?"

  "YES. REALLY."

  I’m practically vibrating now, brandishing the stick between us like a holy relic warding off evil.

  "For crying out loud, zip it back up before one of us spontaneously combusts."

  She pouts, because of course she does, tugging the onesie back into place with all the wounded dignity of a cat dragged out of a sunbeam.

  "Humans are weird," she mutters, her tail flicking behind her like a metronome of pure judgment.

  I wave a hand limply, too exhausted to care.

  "Yeah, well. So are demons."

  She flashes me a grin—sharp teeth glinting in the firelight, all sparkle and threat, like a toothpaste ad directed by a horror movie producer.

  "I like weird," she says, and God help me, she means it.

  I scrub the heel of my palm over my face, trying to smear away the headache already blooming behind my eyes.

  Of course she does.

  Why wouldn't she?

  Weird isn’t just on the menu around here. It's the whole damn buffet.

  Behind me, someone clears a throat—a polite ahem that somehow carries all the smugness of a man who just won a bet.

  I turn, slow as tectonic plates, and there he is:

  Sir Spudsworth.

  The potato.

  Adjusting his imaginary cuffs with the solemnity of a judge about to pass sentence.

  "Now that the... misunderstanding is resolved," he says, voice so dry it could start brushfires, "might we return to discussing the terms of our agreement?"

  I look at the potato.

  Then at the demon girl, still staring at me with those huge, hopeful eyes, like I'm the only thing standing between her and absolute disaster—or maybe absolute joy.

  Then back to the potato, who somehow manages to look stern despite having no nose, no eyebrows, and not a single damn thing going for him except audacity.

  The fire pops.

  Shadows jitter across the clearing.

  I swear the raccoons are holding their breath, the whole camp frozen on the edge of collective meltdown.

  I close my eyes and inhale deep. The night presses against my skin—heavy with woodsmoke, damp leaves, wet fur.

  I could’ve been anywhere else.

  I could’ve been retired by now, holed up somewhere warm, raising chickens that don’t sass me, that don’t talk back.

  Could’ve sold the damn farm like a smart man.

  Instead, here I am—hashing out life-and-death negotiations with a root vegetable and a demon who thinks clothing is optional paperwork.

  I sigh, long and slow, like the air’s leaking straight out of my soul.

  "I should’ve just sold the farm," I mutter.

  Sir Spudsworth nods, all solemnity and starchy approval.

  The demon girl beams like she’s just been crowned queen of whatever madness we’ve stumbled into.

  And me?

  Standing there, smoke in my hair, regret in my teeth, and woodland creatures openly judging me—I’m starting to think maybe I'm the weird one after all.