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.