The joke lands like a stone in still water. Nova watches Shogg's form pulse, tendrils curling inward, then outward, as if tasting the shape of the words she just spoke. A boy walks into a library. Asks for books about paranoia. Librarian whispers: 'They're right behind you.' She'd heard it from Bob, who'd heard it from Cozmic, who'd probably heard it from someone who'd heard it from someone else. It was old. Predictable. Human. Shogg's eyes flicker. Green luminescence dims, brightens, dims again. The air around them grows cold, then warm, then cold once more. Nova shifts her weight, hands deep in her hoodie pocket, feeling the worn fabric between her fingers. Then Shogg speaks. Not with sound, but with a resonance that vibrates through the ground, through her ribcage, through the fillings in her teeth. 'Was that supposed to make me feel less alone?' The silence that follows is heavier than any punchline. Nova opens her mouth. Closes it. The Okanogan wind picks up, carrying the scent of dry soil and sage across the hill. A single tumbleweed rolls past, catching the last sliver of sunlight. 'I...' she starts. 'I don't know. Maybe. That's what jokes do. They connect people. Even if it's just for a second.' Shogg's tendrils droop. The luminous eyes fix on her with an intensity that makes her feel seen in a way she didn't ask for. 'For a second,' the Shoggoth repeats. 'And then the second ends.' She has no answer for that. The stars begin to emerge overhead, one by one, as if the universe is slowly deciding to pay attention. Somewhere behind them, a coyote calls. Another answers from farther off. Nova takes a step closer. 'I could tell you another one,' she says. 'They're not all about loneliness. Some of them are about ducks.' Shogg's form ripples. It might be curiosity. It might be amusement. It might be hunger. 'Tell me the duck one,' the Shoggoth says. And for a moment, the silence between them feels a little less heavy. But only for a moment.