But the most the Sandman could do was kill me; Bastion could, maybe, turn me into something so dark it made Jamie on a bad day look like Phoebe in chu...ch. Nothing we had tried had been even remotely successful, and I still didn't know how I was going to handle someone I couldn't even look at in a dream. Trust me, over-confidence, wasn't a problem. Maybe if we had a clue..."I don't suppose you've come up with any new ideas on what to do about Bastion himself? I was kind of hoping that if I left. The Deadericks were selling beef, butter and milk. We sold wheat flour with instructions on how to make scratch pancakes—sourdough pancakes don't need baking powder, just a little of the 'mother' and taste fine. I ought to know, I ate enough of 'em.Our mushrooms weren't bearing as much as the previous year. It was time to replenish the growth media. We got out our tired-looking notebooks from last year and located the oak trees we'd prepared. They'd rotted down pretty well but still had some. More

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