You dug hundreds of miles to come home and your moleman father’s treating you like dirt. Worse than dirt, really. He respects dirt.

“I wanted to try and patch things up between us,” you tell him, pointing a sharp claw in his direction. “But all you care about are your dumb, fake history books! How about an alternate timeline where you tell me that you love me?”

“Without a dictator, that’d be a lousy book!” he shouts back. Shaking your head, you turn around and borrow back to the Tunnel of Crud. You’ll return to the surface-world and tell your therapist she is wrong and also an idiot.

But she promised you a full month of free sessions if the trip was a bust! Yay! Therapy’s expensive!

THE END