Spudbud sat in the dirt and did the one job a potato has. He was brown. He was lumpy. He had seven eyes and none of them blinked. The soil pressed cool against his skin, and a beetle crossed his shoulder without asking. Above him, somewhere past the roots, the world made its usual noise. Spudbud ignored it. He wanted to be a potato. Only a potato. A round, quiet, potatoey potato in the ground where potatoes belong. A shadow moved over the dirt. Small hands brushed the soil away from his side, then stopped. The hands went away. Spudbud settled deeper, satisfied. He was still lumpy. He was still brown. The beetle finished its walk and dropped off his edge into the dark. Spudbud closed all seven eyes at once, which for a potato is the same as opening them, and stayed exactly where he was. Nothing had changed, and that was the point. He had done it. He was being a potato.