Uncle Sour Gum Drop wanted to soften the tyrant's iron heart, but no one alive knew the way inside the tyrant's fortress. Every joyless street in the city obeyed that ruler. Laughter earned a fine. Music earned a whipping. Uncle Sour Gum Drop, a purple gum drop no taller than a lamppost's base, had a plan to change all of that with sweetness. But a plan needs a door, and Uncle Sour Gum Drop had never even seen the fortress walls. So Uncle Sour Gum Drop climbed to the highest rooftop in the city. Up there, the fortress finally showed itself across the rooftops. Walls of grey stone. Towers with no windows. A wall so tall the top vanished into cloud. Uncle Sour Gum Drop pulled out a sketch pad and began to draw. Every rooftop between here and there. Every wall the workers had built. The sturdy pages held each line without slipping. Uncle Sour Gum Drop marked the gates, the guard towers, the narrow supply road that ran along the base. Slowly a map of the fortress grew from the outside in. But walls do not tell you where the doors are. Uncle Sour Gum Drop needed someone who had been inside. That meant the workers who carried stone and water through the supply road each dawn. Uncle Sour Gum Drop had a bottle of golden fruit syrup. Rich amber. One taste could loosen any tired tongue. At dawn Uncle Sour Gum Drop crouched by the supply road and waved the bottle at a passing worker. "A drop for a word," Uncle Sour Gum Drop called. "Just tell me how you get in." The worker stopped. Hunger won. The worker drank, wiped their mouth, and pointed at the map on the sketch pad. "Not the front gate," the worker whispered. "There's a low door behind the kitchens. We carry the sugar in there. It's never locked. The cooks are always begging for more." Then the worker hurried off before a guard could see. Uncle Sour Gum Drop marked the kitchen door on the map with a firm line. The way in was found. At last, a real path to the tyrant's heart. Uncle Sour Gum Drop carried a gleaming glass dish, heaped with bright sugared gum drops, straight to the low door behind the kitchens. It stood open, just as promised. Inside, cooks bent over cold, empty pots. They looked up and saw the dish. Their eyes went wide. Hands reached out. Uncle Sour Gum Drop stepped through the door. But at the sound of visitors, a cook shouted a warning down the hall. Heavy boots answered. Guards filled the doorway behind, blocking the way back out. Uncle Sour Gum Drop was inside the fortress now. The door was found, the plan had worked. But the only way left to go was deeper in, toward the tyrant, with no way back out.