Last night I met a beautiful young blond human with green eyes and a long grey coat. He put a card in my pocket, telling me not to read it until we parted. Night fell, and we walked across one of London’s many bridges. I knew he was going to make everything make sense. I would take him on adventures, and he’d keep me warm when it rained. Then I woke up. My throat was still sore. A painful Dyshidrotic patch had dappled across my left hand overnight. I couldn’t even look at what the card said. I’ll never know.