Gregory Picklebottom wanted, more than anything, to become a cucumber. This was strange, because his head was already a giant pickle. But a pickle is only a cucumber that gave up, and Gregory refused to give up. He tugged his handlebar mustache and studied the man on the ground before him. The man had been a butcher yesterday. Today he was a cucumber, curled in the grass, silent. Gregory crouched. His googly eye rolled. The tiny eye on his chin blinked at the dirt. "A transformation," he said, tapping the cucumber with his rubber chicken hand. "Someone in this world knows the recipe. And that someone will teach it to me." He had tried everything else. He had questioned pigeons, certain they were IRS agents hiding the secret. He had opened his briefcase and consulted his wet sock. The sock said nothing. His famous detective methods, which he believed were the greatest alive, had led him in a circle back to this cold cucumber and no answers. So Gregory did the last thing left. He walked into the garden that grows where no one plants it. Flowers snapped at his Crocs. Vines with blinking eyes turned to watch. Impossible blooms erupted from the soil with every step. At the center stood something enormous and old, half tree and half nightmare, its trunk knotted with glowing mushrooms. This was Zinzubaroth, the ancient god of the garden. A tiny sun burned inside his chest. His head was a swirling hole leading somewhere endless. Seven screaming sunflowers ringed his crown. Gregory hated the number seven. He looked at his own boots instead and cleared his throat. "Pardon my intrusion, most honored vegetable lord," Gregory said, bowing so low his armor creaked. "I seek the secret of turning a man into a cucumber. I wish to become one myself." The god spoke in many voices at once, in the whisper of roots and the hum of dreams. "YOU ASK TO SHED YOUR SHAPE. FEW ASK. FEWER SURVIVE THE ASKING." "I survive most things," Gregory said. "I fear only sandwiches." A vine slid forward. In its grip hung a single seed, pale blue, dripping nectar. "THE CHANGE IS A SEED," Zinzubaroth said. "SWALLOW IT UNDER A FULL GARDEN MOON. YOU WILL BEGIN TO TURN. BUT THE SEED FEEDS ON WHAT YOU LOVE MOST. IT WILL TAKE A PRICE YOU CANNOT NAME YET." Gregory did not hesitate. He plucked the seed with his rubber chicken hand and dropped it into his briefcase, beside the wet sock. "I accept." The sunflowers screamed louder. The god's sun flared. "THEN GO. WHEN THE MOON IS FULL, YOU CHOOSE. AND THE GARDEN WILL COME TO COLLECT." The vines withdrew. The flowers closed. Gregory turned and walked out, briefcase heavier than before. He had his answer at last. He also had a debt he did not understand, and a moon that would soon be full.

Gregory Picklebottom hugged his briefcase to his chest and waited for the moon. Inside sat the pale blue seed the garden god had given him. Swallow it under a full moon, and he would begin to turn into a cucumber. But a pigeon had been watching him for an hour. It sat on a broken bone arch above him, one orange eye locked on the briefcase. Gregory knew that stare. This bird was an IRS agent, and it wanted his seed. "You cannot audit me tonight," Gregory whispered. "That seed is not income. It is destiny." The pigeon shuffled closer. Gregory backed up the temple steps, past pillars made of old bones. His Crocs slapped the stone. The moon climbed higher. He had maybe ten minutes before it went full, and the agent was closing in. A girl leaned in the temple doorway. She wore a patchwork coat of a dozen colors. She tossed keys into the air, one after another, catching them without looking. Gregory had met her once outside the crooked manor, where she guarded doors that never opened twice. She grinned at him. "That bird's got you spooked," she said, flipping a brass key over her knuckles. "Want a trade? A key for a favor?" "I need it gone," Gregory said. "It works for the tax men." The girl laughed. "Everything works for someone." She pointed a key toward the deep water beyond the temple. "There's a fellow down there who eats birds. Shark on top, octopus below. Ring the old bell and he'll come." Gregory did not love this plan. But the moon was nearly full, and the pigeon had hopped to the step above him. He grabbed the rusty bell hanging in the doorway and swung it hard with his rubber chicken hand. The clang rolled across the water. The surface split. A huge shape rose, gray and finned, with tentacles trailing behind like propellers. The Sharkmancer studied the temple with one bright eye. The pigeon froze. Then the tentacles snapped forward, faster than sight. They wrapped the bird and yanked it into the dark water. Feathers drifted down. The agent was gone. Gregory sagged against a pillar, breathing hard. "Thank you," he told the girl. But she had already stepped back into the temple. As she went, she pressed a key into his rubber chicken hand. "You'll owe me that favor," she called. "I always collect." The moon slid full and white above the bone temple. Gregory opened his briefcase. The wet sock was there. The seed was there, glowing. He lifted it toward his mouth, ready at last. Then his googly eye rolled to the key in his hand. It was warm now, almost hot. Deep in the temple, behind a locked door, something began to hum. The seed could wait one more moment. Whatever the girl had handed him, it was awake, and it wanted him to come inside.

The moon was already sinking. Gregory clutched his briefcase and pressed the warm key into the temple's locked door. The hum inside called him, but he pushed the thought away. He had no time for awakened things. The seed glowed in his palm. He needed to swallow it now, while the moon still hung full, and he needed a wall at his back where no pigeon could reach him. He turned from the door and stumbled deeper into the temple. Ribs of old bone arched overhead. A boy dragged a slab of dinosaur bone across the floor, straining under its weight. His hide apron was streaked with dust. He was scrawny, half Gregory's size, but he hauled the slab like a stubborn ox. "You're blocking the door," the boy grunted. "People say my father is a god. Nobody thinks I can carry a thing. Watch me." Gregory bowed with great politeness. "Holt Oren, I presume. I am the greatest detective alive, and I require a room without windows. Tax agents fly. I must eat this seed unseen." Holt wiped his brow. He studied the glowing seed with narrow eyes. "Windows let the birds in. There's a place with no windows at all." He jerked his chin toward a side passage. "But it walks off when it's bored." Gregory followed him out a low arch. Beyond the bones stood a house shaped like a melting cake, tilted sideways on six huge chicken legs. A giant eyeball floated above the roof, blinking. Doors dotted every wall. Holt banged a fist on the lowest door. "Inside, no sky," Holt said. "Go. Before the moon dies." Gregory ducked through. The room had no windows, only shifting walls. He set his briefcase down, opened it, and lifted the seed toward his mouth. Then a knock rattled the door. A bear in a gray suit leaned in, grinning, a vacuum cleaner at his side. He carried a clipboard against his chest. "Good evening! I couldn't help noticing your floors. Filthy. One free demonstration, no obligation—" "No sandwiches," Gregory blurted, backing to the wall. "No number seven. And no interruptions." He shoved the door shut on the salesman's paw. The bear yelped. Gregory raised the seed. The moon's last light slid through the closing crack. He swallowed. The seed went down cool and hard. Warmth spread through his chest. His arms tingled. Green crept up his rubber chicken wrist. He had done it. No pigeon had stolen his destiny. Then the god's promise struck him. The seed took what he loved most. His googly eye rolled down to his briefcase. He tore it open. The wet sock was gone. In its place lay a shriveled, dried husk. Outside, the house shifted its weight and took a slow step. The walls tilted. Gregory clutched his briefcase, half cucumber now, riding a house that had begun to walk with him trapped inside.