Wednesday stared at the path, the basket his mother had packed tied securely to his back. Neither his mother nor his gran had been able to see them off, for which he was grateful. The yellow paths were perhaps the rarest in the UnderWhere, and he didn’t like to think what they would have to say about that—especially if they ever learned that this wasn’t the first time he’d set foot on one.
“Nah-nain,” Glop observed from beside him. The child frowned at the buttercup stones that uncoiled before them. His bear said nothing, but simply dripped with slime and stuffing.
“No,” Wednesday sighed, “not a nain.”