Han Bacca sits cross-legged on the desert floor and spreads the journal pages in front of them like evidence at a trial. The mountain researcher's new publication matches their buried swamp data point by point. Someone else has now seen what Han saw three years ago. Han pulls the amulet from beneath their shirt and sets it on the pages. The glow spreads across the ink like dawn light on water. They could publish now—the mountain folk would have to listen when their own researcher confirms the findings. But Han reaches into their field kit and pulls out a folded paper bundle wrapped in oilcloth. Inside, pressed flat between the pages, are larkspur blooms from the swamp edge where they first recorded the anomalous readings. The flowers still hold their pink color after three years. Han opens their current notebook to a blank page and begins writing the full data set, amulet included, measurements and all. The mountain folk might throw more than boots this time. But the next small cryptid who comes after will find a complete record, not half a truth.

Han sits in the shade of a desert rock with their fresh documentation spread across their lap when they hear the crying. It comes from the direction of the foothills, high-pitched and scared. They fold the journal closed and stand, field kit in hand, scanning the scrub brush. A small cryptid stumbles into view, no bigger than a rabbit, with matted fur and a bleeding ear. It sees Han and freezes. Han crouches low and sets down their kit. The creature limps forward three steps, then collapses at Han's feet. Han picks it up carefully and feels its ribs through the thin coat. Mountain folk did this. They always do. Han needs somewhere safe to take it, but the desert offers nothing except exposure and heat. Then they spot the banyan tree rising impossible and green from the sand half a mile west, moss hanging like curtains, a small wooden structure wedged in its branches. Han wraps the creature in their field jacket and walks. The tree shouldn't exist here, and Han knows better than to trust magic they don't understand, but the young cryptid is shaking and Han has no credentials, no authority, no way to demand help from anyone who matters. They climb the wooden stairs winding up the trunk. The treehouse door opens before they can knock. Inside is cool and dim, smelling of old wood and growing things. Han sets the creature on a woven mat and pulls their amulet out. Its glow fills the small room. They've been hiding it to earn respect they'll never get by hiding. The creature's breathing steadies in the light. Han opens their field kit and begins to clean the wound, knowing that when the mountain folk learn a small cryptid is harboring another small cryptid in a magic tree, they'll have proof that Han's kind can't be trusted. But the creature is breathing, and Han writes that down too.

Han cleaned the last of the dried blood from the creature's ear. Their fingers brushed something stiff under the matted fur. Not a burr. Not a bone. Han parted the coat and pulled out a folded packet, sealed with red wax. It was heavy for its size. The creature whimpered when Han lifted it free. Han set the packet down and stared. Someone had hidden this in a living animal and sent it into the desert. Han broke no seal. They did not need to. The wax stamp showed a merchant guild's mark, the same guild Han had heard cursed at every crossing. Whatever the packet held, mountain folk would kill to get it back. Han's feet started tapping against the wood floor. They wrapped the packet in a cloth and pushed it deep in their field kit, next to their notes. Boots hit the stairs outside. Han froze. The door opened without a knock. A woman ducked in under a wide-brimmed hat, coins jangling at her belt, dust caked on her cracked lips. She looked at the creature, then at Han's kit, then at Han. "That one's mine," the trader said. "I sent it out three days back." She held out a flat hand. "The packet. Give it here." "Actually," Han said, "I don't know you." "Sunny Palo. I move food to families the guild starved out." She did not lower the hand. "That paper names their routes. Their men. If it burns, people eat this winter." Han's mind raced. A stranger. A guild mark. Mountain folk hunting a paper Han now held. Every part of it told Han to hide, to run, to bury this like they'd buried so much before. Their feet would not stop tapping. "Prove it," Han said. Sunny crouched by the creature. She scratched under its chin, once, in a spot the animal leaned into. It knew her. She stood. "I don't write names down. Writing gets people killed. That's why I hid it in fur instead of a saddlebag." Han understood that fear. They had lived it for years, glow tucked under their shirt, notes left unwritten. But they had chosen, just days ago, to stop hiding truth to feel safe. Han opened the kit. They took out the wrapped packet and held it a moment. Then they set it in Sunny's palm. "The guild will look for it," Han said. "They'll trace it to this tree. To me." Sunny tucked it away. "Then you're in it now. Same as me." She said it flat, final, like a door shut. Han looked at the creature breathing steady on the mat. They had gone looking for respect from people who threw rocks. Here was someone asking for help instead. Han picked up their pen. They wrote down the date, the guild mark, and Sunny's name. This time they would keep the record. Outside, far off, hooves crossed the sand toward the tree.