Wevwet had a wooden chair glued to his head, and the glue was a wad of pink gum that would not let go. He was seventy-one years old. He had spent all morning on the porch of his little cabin, fighting the chair. The gum held the seat flat against his gray hair. Every time he pulled the chair, his scalp burned like fire. He braced both hands on the chair legs and yanked. Hair ripped. He yelped and let go. The chair thumped back against his skull. He tried again, slower, and the pain still stopped him cold. He could not pull hard enough to loosen the gum without tearing his hair out. "Stupid gum," he muttered. He didn't even remember sitting under a chair. He only knew it was stuck now, and he wanted it gone. A scaled penguin waddled up the sagging cabin steps. Its feathers looked like green and purple armor. It tilted its head at Wevwet and made a low click. "Don't laugh," Wevwet said. "I've had enough." The penguin pecked at the chair leg, then at Wevwet's sleeve. It tugged him toward the yard. Wevwet followed, because he had no better idea. The penguin stopped under a slender tree. One thin branch held a single orange. Wevwet stared at it. Then he understood. Orange peel had oils. Oils broke down gum. He had learned that scrubbing gum off his boots years ago. He reached up and twisted the orange free. He dug his thumb into the peel and squeezed. Juice and oil ran over his fingers. He rubbed the wet peel into the gum on his head, working it deep. The gum went soft and slick. He pressed the chair legs again. This time he twisted instead of pulling. The gum stretched, thinned, and finally let go with a wet snap. The chair came loose in his hands. His hair stayed on his head. Wevwet held the chair up and laughed out loud. His scalp still stung, but the weight was gone. The penguin clicked and flapped its stubby wings. Then Wevwet felt the gum in his fingers. It had slid off the chair and onto his hand. He shook his hand hard. The gum clung tighter. He grabbed it with his other hand to peel it off, and now both hands stuck together, wrapped in the same pink wad. He pulled his palms apart. They snapped back like a trap. The orange oil was already gone, worked into the chair and his hair. His hands were sealed, fingers laced, in front of him. Wevwet stood in his yard with his hands glued shut and no way to twist the orange for more oil. The penguin watched. Wevwet looked at his trapped hands and swallowed. "Well," he said. "That's worse."

Wevwet couldn't stand still. His hands were sealed shut, fingers laced under a wad of pink gum. He couldn't grip a thing or twist anything free. Panic took over. He ran off the porch and across the yard, his trapped hands stuck out in front of him like a boat's prow. He crashed through brush and stumbled over roots. A lush fern slapped his knees as he ran past it. He kept going, because stopping meant thinking, and thinking only made it worse. He broke into a clearing and nearly fell over the edge of a small watering hole. Clear water rippled inside a rim of stone. Two fish, one orange and one gray, slid under the surface. Wevwet dropped to his knees, gasping. He stared at his laced fingers. Maybe water would loosen the gum. It was worth a try. He plunged both hands under the surface. The cold hit him. Then the world tilted. The watering hole was gone. The trees were gone. Wevwet knelt on cracked stone between two tall walls. Weathered gray blocks rose high on either side, carved with faded curling lines. A maze. He was inside a maze, and he had no idea how. He lifted his hands to his face. They came apart. The gum was gone. His fingers spread wide and free. He wiggled every one of them and laughed, a raw, surprised bark. He flexed his hands open and shut, again and again, just because he could. Then he looked around and stopped laughing. The walls went up past his reach. Passages branched left and right into shadow. He didn't know which way led out. He picked a direction and walked. The first turn dead-ended. He backtracked. The second bent left, then left again, and he found himself where he'd started. He pressed one hand flat against the cold stone wall. His father had taught him a trick, years back. Keep one hand on the wall and never lift it. Follow every turn it makes. The wall would carry you out. Wevwet set his right palm on the stone and walked. He kept his hand there through each turn, each dead-end, each long straight stretch. His legs ached. His palm scraped raw. He did not lift his hand. The passage curved one last time, and light spilled across the floor ahead. He stepped out through a gap in the wall. The trees stood around him again. The watering hole sat quiet at his back, the two fish gliding under the surface. Wevwet held up his hands and turned them over in the light. Clean. Free. The gum was gone for good. He pressed his fingertips to his scalp, feeling the bare skin where the chair had been. His hands were his own again. He breathed hard and grinned at the empty woods. For the first time all day, nothing was stuck to him.