My jar is knocked from my hands, and it falls to the sidewalk, shattering. Killian’s tan work boots land on the mushrooms, crushing them into pulp, as he bounds to loom over the human, fangs bared, claws unsheathed. Screams pierce the air. There’s the scent of piss. ShroomForager3000 scrambles backwards like a crab. My mushrooms are brown goo. There are a handful intact, but they glitter with glass shards. Morels have so many ridges, even if I soak and rinse them, I can’t be sure to get them clean. They are all ruined. Three hundred dollars, down the drain. No unlimited data. No mushroom farm.
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