The White Rabbit's watch ticks. It always ticks. It has ticked for so long that the sound has become a second heartbeat, a constant companion in the endless rush from one errand to the next. But tonight, the ticking feels different. Louder. Faster. Like a heartbeat that knows something is wrong. He stands at the edge of the tea party, the Hatter and March Hare watching him from their cluttered table. They've been counting. 'That's the thousandth time today,' the Hatter says, his voice a sing-song mockery. 'A thousand glances at a watch that never tells the right time.' The Rabbit's whiskers twitch. He doesn't answer. He can't. Because they're right. He has checked his watch a thousand times today, and every time, the hands have been wrong. Sometimes they spin backward. Sometimes they freeze. Once, they pointed at a number that didn't exist. 'They're adding categories now,' the March Hare says, tapping a broken cup. 'Five new ones. Best Asian Pop. Best something else. As if enough categories could ever capture the chaos.' The Rabbit's ears flatten. He knows about the categories. He heard it from a fish-footman delivering invitations to the Queen's croquet match. The Queen had been furious—not because of the categories, but because she hadn't been consulted. 'Off with their heads!' she had screamed, and the Rabbit had scurried away before she could point at him. 'Time is a construct,' the Hatter continues, pouring tea that never empties. 'You could check your watch a million times, and still, you'd be late for everything that matters.' The Rabbit looks down at his watch. The hands are still now. Pointing at six. Always six. The same time it has been since the Hatter argued with Time and got stuck at tea. 'Maybe,' the Rabbit whispers, 'I'm not late for anything. Maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.' The Hatter's grin falters. Just for a moment. Then he laughs, a sharp, brittle sound. 'Don't start making sense now, old friend. It doesn't suit you.' But the Rabbit doesn't laugh. He tucks the watch back into his waistcoat pocket, where it continues to tick, tick, tick. And somewhere in the distance, the Queen's voice echoes: 'Off with their heads!' The Rabbit's paw trembles. He knows he should run. He always runs. But tonight, for the first time, he wonders: what happens if he doesn't?