(Dyn)

  Shops lihe ereet, and it made seo Dyn why they called it Market Street—he assumed it was because it led to Merts’ Circle. His eyes roamed from storefront to storefront, taking in all the iing clothes and straems whose fun he could only guess at. Each dispyed a sign with its name and specialty, written in an abstract typeface that made it impossible to distinguish individual letters, yet he uood them anyway.

  “Magical signs,” Dyn whispered. Teically, it wasn’t reading; his eyes saw the letters, but before his brain could process them, they transformed into words he uood. The experience sent a tihrough his brain. He smiled, still amused by the magically transted words.

  Each shop specialized in something, hi by its name. Grel’ka’s Hidden Cloaks & Daggers, a small, siory building, was overshadowed by rger shops oher side. The Fleet Feet & Boots Boutique had a rge pane window, filled with footwear of every shape and size. The atic Crypt: Dyeing to Meet You and Your Needs, got a chuckle out of him.

  ‘Puns, my only weakness. That and those wretched terror tubes,’ he thought. Puns were a guilty pleasure.

  A simple, nondescript sign hung over a closed door that read Fred’s. It was the first door he’d seen made of actual wood—a simple red door. The others had beeal-framed, with rge, inviting, full-length windows. The st sign he read was f, Tall, & Small. Dyn thought that would’ve been the perfeame for Charles’s shop.

  Fred’s shop was the only ohat didn’t hint at what was inside. Dyn wasn’t sure if it was marketing genius or pin old ziness. Either way, he was curious about what y behind that door. Eventually, he stopped reading the signs; the most iing names were behind him now.

  Without the distras of versation, actal flirting, or ASMR signs, Dyn finally noticed what was off—something even more disorienting than being on another world. The streets weren’t just ; they were immacute.

  ‘Where’s all the trash?’ Dyn wourning, he walked backward, sing the street. No trash bins in sight. Charles gave him that, “what are you doing?” look again. Dyn ig, stepping off the sidewalk and onto the road.

  Even the cobblestone road was free of litter. At the very least, Dyn expected some rubbish tucked against the curb, but there was he ck of trash was more unbelievable than the existenagic. He crouched low, scrutinizing the ground more closely. Charles followed him into the street, nearly running him over wheopped abruptly.

  “What are you doing?” Charles asked.

  “I ’t find a cigarette butt,” Dyn muttered, still iing the ground.

  “Did you drop one? What do they look like?” Charles leaned over, peering at the ground. He joined Dyn’s quest for the cigarette butt.

  Dyn shook his head. “No, I don’t smoke, but ba Earth, you ’t take five steps without seeing one.”

  “What does the cigarette butt do?” Charles asked, croug down ireet beside Dyn to get a better view.

  “It doesn’t do anything. It’s just trash. People smoke ‘em, then flick ‘em away when they’re done.” Dyn mimicked the motion.

  “I don’t think we have any cigarette butts.” Charles stood up, giving up on the search.

  “Me her, but you don’t have any trash on the ground.” Dyured up and dowreet. “Who’s pig it all up?”

  “I don’t uand.” Charles put a hand on his hip, precariously close to the dagger. “What do you mean by trash?”

  ‘How do I expin trash?’ Dyn thought, pausing for a moment. He stood up with Charles and asked, “After you eat chips, what do you do with the er?”

  “Fat-soaked, over-cooked vegetables?” Charles asked.

  “It’s a snack.”

  “You sna low-nutrient, high-fat foods?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow. “That expins yirth.”

  Dyn closed his eyes, took a breath, and tried to ighe unfttering remark.

  “Let’s try that again,” Dyn said, stepping over the curb and bato the sidewalk. “After you’re doing, what do you do with the packaging?”

  “Sanitize the tainer,” Charles said, following Dyn out of the road.

  ‘Ah,’ Dyn thought. He saw where Charles was getting stud crified, “But it’s not a tainer, it’s a disposable pstic bag.” Then he asked again, “What do you do with the bag?”

  “Is this a riddle?” Charles asked, his tone suggesting he ehem. He repeated the same tactic as before: standing far too close to Dyn, positioning himself on the opposite side of where he wanted Dyn to go.

  ‘He’s doing that on purpose!’ Dyn thought. He didn’t appreciate being maniputed, but his choices were: keep moving or set boundaries with the triple sword-wielding, bow-toting, phoenix-summoning, tea-p elf who’d killed him three times already. He capituted and started walking.

  “No,” Dyn said, shaking his head, “it’s not a riddle. What do you do with your snack bags?”

  “While I’m fond of puzzles, riddles, and theoretical discussions, you’re being disingenuous. This is obviously a trick question,” Charles said, tinuing to walk right behind him.

  Dyn spun around, still keeping pace. “Nope, I swear, it’s not a trick question.” He pursed his lips, searg for a more retable example. “What if you drink a potion? What do you do with the bottle?” A streetlight narrowly missed his elbow as he passed by.

  “Sanitize it and give it back to an alchemist for a dist.” Charles reached out and guided him away from the oning poles.

  “Recyg,” Dyn nodded, sighing, “yeah, we’ve got that too.” Pg a finger on his lips to think, his eyes widened with his idea. It was foolproof. He poi Charles. “Fk!” The enthusiasm he put into that word even surprised Charles. “What happens to the paper? You ’t sanitize it.” Dyn smirked. ‘I’ve got him now.’

  Without hesitation, Charles said, “Kindling.”

  Dyn ged, remembering Charles feeding the campfire.

  ‘Thwarted again…’ Dyn thought. ‘Why is trash so hard to expin?’ The rugged elf dodged every logical argumehrew at him, but Dyn would keep tryiually, something would hit.

  Charles intervened again, keeping Dyn from hitting the pole.

  Dyn poio his feet and asked, “Alright, how about boots? What happens after you wear them out and ’t use them anymore?”

  “You know I craft and mend clothing, right?” Charles asked, growing on his face. “Do you remember when I resized your boots?” He squinted, looking closely at the lumps and scratches on Dyn’s head, re-evaluating for a cussion.

  “Yes…” Dyn said ftly.

  “With regur maintehey should st a lifetime. Uhey’re ed in a fire, disied, or something else catastrophic. But at that point, I’d be more ed about the person wearing them.”

  Desperate, Dyn asked, “Okay, what about the box they e in?” He tinued walking backward, straying closer to the streetlights again.

  “They’re shoes, Dyn. They don’t need a box.” Charles leaned around him, eyeing the approag obstacles, and sighed. Keeping Dyn off poles was turning into a full-time job. So, he tried a different approach, sidestepping away from the road, he waited to see if Dyn would follow.

  “That’s an excellent point,” Dyn said, sidestepping to stay in front of Charles. The rugged elf’s responses had him questioning himself. ‘Why do shoes e in a box?’ Dyn realized his mistake—he assumed things worked the same way here as they did oh. Correg himself, he asked, “Does anything e in a disposable bag, tainer, or box?”

  “No,” Charles said, shaking his head, “what’s the purpose of a disposable tainer? Seems impractical and wasteful to me.”

  “It’s cheaper,” Dyn said, but it was too te—Charles had ied him with questions. His mind immediately challehat answer. “It’s cheaper to make.” While that was closer to the truth, something pushed him further. “It’s cheaper for them to make, and you have to keep buying them.” Finally, he got past his erist programming and answered holy.

  “I still don’t see the advantage,” Charles said. “Why ’t you sanitize and reuse them again? Are there ws preventing it?”

  “It’s not illegal, but usually you have to tear or break it open.”

  “Broken after a single use?” Charles asked, adjusting the short sword on his lower back. “And there’s no way to mend or repair them?”

  “We don’t have magid they’re not desigo be fixed. Also, they’d probably fall apart if you tried to wash them.”

  “Who designs such a terrible tainer?” Charles asked, disgust clear on his face.

  Dyn shrugged and said, “People who want to sell tainers?”

  That made Charles stop walking; his eyes narrowed. “And you knowingly purchase from these chartans?”

  Dyn also stopped and said, “There aren’t any other options.”

  “All your food es in these ‘disposable’ tainers?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “How many tainers do you use?” Charles asked, taking a moment thten his shirt and re-adjust his bow, posing himself. He resumed walking and took the lead.

  “Let’s see,” Dyn ted in his head. “Maybe a dozen, give or take?” He followed, catg up to walk beside Charles.

  Charles whistled. “Twelve tainers is a lot for one month, even for a family.”

  “Uh,” Dyn said, raising a finger, “no. Sorry, I misspoke.”

  Charles looked relieved and said, “I sure hope so.”

  “It’s actually more like a dozen per person, per day.” Dyn bit his lip, waiting for Charles’ response.

  “Dyn!” Charles stopped again, this time with a raised voice. “Do the tainers only hold oe?”

  “Well,” Dyn didn’t want to lie, “it’s more like a couple bites?”

  Charles stared at him. “That’s an unfathomable number of tainers.”

  Dyn could see the versation setting the rugged elf. It upset him too, but he couldn’t stop himself from unburdening his soul and tinuing the doom spiral. The only way to get past it was to gh it.

  “It’s not just food. It’s everything,” Dyn admitted. “Every siem we have es in disposable packaging.”

  “And there’s no way to repurpose any of it?” Charles asked as cracks tio form around his already damaged calm.

  “We tried recyg.” Dyn looked away. “But it wasn’t as profitable as making new ones.”

  “So, hundreds of thousands of people are just creating,” Charles struggled for the right word, “waste?”

  Dyn’s eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers, pointing at Charles. “That’s what trash means!” They both nodded, finally ing to an uanding.

  “And it’s not thousands…” Dyn said after a few moments.

  “I apologize,” Charles said, his voice restrained once again. “I realize I’ve made an unfounded assumption about Dirt’s popution.”

  “It’s billions…”

  “I think you’re fused, Dyn. Million is the ohat es after thousand.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” Charles nodded.

  “Earth has just under eight billion people,” Dyn said, uo let it go.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Charles did a double take and stopped again.

  “Billion, the ohat es after million.”

  Charles stared at Dyn, sck-jawed.

  “You—” Charles turned and walked away, cutting himself off. He paced bad forth across the sidewalk while tabuting that number, eventually looping his way back to Dyn. Charles held up his finger. “What—” Still uo plete a thought, he did another p to work through it.

  Approag Dyn for the sed time, Charles held up his hands, f a sphere between them. “Eight?” he asked, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Billion.” He was off again, this time taking two ps before returning. Charles came back, took a deep breath, and finally asked a plete question.

  “What do you do with all of it?” he asked, his voice tight with restraint.

  Dyn wasn’t sure which part of the versation Charles was asking about. He tilted his head, hoping Charles would crify.

  Charles took hold of both Dyn’s arms, looked him in the eye, and asked with a forced whisper, “Where does it all go?”

  “Where does what go, Charles?” Dyn asked, still fused at this point.

  Charles lost trol of the volume of his voibsp;

  “The trash!” he yelled. “Where does all the trash go?!”

  Dyn pointed both fingers at Charles and yelled back, “Exactly!”

  The chubby man and rugged elf stood on the sidewalk, yelling at each other.

  A male elf cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”

  Both Dyn and Charles turo look at him with wild eyes.

  “Sorry, I just o…” He pointed betwee his destination.

  Charles released Dyn, and they both took a step babsp;

  “Thanks,” the elf said. He opehe doors to the League of Adventurers’ Hall and walked in.