At first, Q thought it was a deer. But its legs bent backward at too many joints. Its fur was the color of a CRT television tuned to a dead channel—that dancing, nihilistic gray. It had no face, just a smooth, oval head, but he could feel it smiling.
Then it appeared.
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It stepped out from behind a hemlock and sat down directly in front of him, mimicking his posture. At first, Q thought it was a deer
The word was a tic, a verbal shrug left over from a decade of old forum deep-dives and ironic detachment. It was his placeholder for the universe, for the friend who wasn't there, for the punchline of a joke he’d forgotten the setup to. It had no face, just a smooth, oval