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He worried about Crispin because, okay, maybe it was possible that Leopold had inadvertently magicked Crispin into loving him, but Leopold hadn’t magicked himself.

He cared about Crispin. He loved Crispin.

He’d never been in love before and had sort of given up hope he ever would be, so under different circumstances he would be relieved and happy.

But not now.

Eventually Leopold’s muscles began to cramp.

Then he developed spasms in his arms and legs, like really bad charley horses, and found that he’d recovered enough to howl in pain.

After way too much of that, the agony subsided.

He groaned, sighed, and rolled onto his side, finally able to take a look at his new prison.

He was in a studio apartment not too different from many of the ones he’d lived in.

No kitchenette, but there was a bed, a couch, a table, and a single wooden chair.

There was a television—one of the bulky wooden console types with built-in speakers, like people owned back in the 60s.

It was switched on and showing The Brady Bunch .

Greg was in trouble for something, but Leopold couldn’t tell what because there was no sound. The room had a couple of shag throw rugs scattered on the floor; the walls were painted off-white, as was the ceiling. Leopold couldn’t see any light fixtures, but the room was moderately bright.

There were no windows, and he couldn’t see a door.

Still aching, Leopold managed to get off the floor and onto the couch.

It didn’t much improve his perspective. And when he repeatedly tried to flex his Chaos muscles, nothing happened.

He couldn’t even change the channel on the TV without getting up and turning the knob, and even then, the same show was on all five channels.

Only five channels! What is this, a gulag?

Defeated and exhausted, he made his way to the bed and curled up, slipping into a dreamless sleep.

He woke up, and everything was the same. Except now Gilligan’s Island was on TV.

Leopold wasn’t hungry or thirsty and didn’t need to pee.

Maybe that was part of the magic of being in the archive.

He would miss food, but when he followed his thoughts to their logical conclusion, he nearly panicked.

If he didn’t need food, then there was no reason for anyone at OotL to enter his prison.

Ever. He would be locked in here without ever seeing another living being.

Although he didn’t panic, he did enter a sort of frenzy of screaming, running around, and scratching and banging on the walls.

All of which was fruitless. As far as he could tell, there was no way out. And nobody came to investigate the noise. He remembered how eerily quiet the OotL hallway had been, and how there had been no clue about what was behind each door.

When he was completely worn out, he collapsed onto the couch and had a good cry. Eventually that subsided and he settled for staring numbly at the water-stained ceiling.

“Hey! Little buddy!”

Leopold froze and looked around. Still nobody there but him. And also no Kleenex, which was a shame because he didn’t even have a sleeve to wipe his nose on.

“Little buddy!”

It was the TV. The TV was talking to him.

Well, not the set itself, but the character on the screen, whom Leopold recognized as the Skipper.

He was sitting on a downed palm tree, wearing his nautical cap and bright blue shirt, and looking straight at Leopold.

He was also smoking a joint, which Leopold was fairly certain had never happened on the show.

“Uh, hello?” Leopold winced. He’d only just been locked up and already he was losing touch with reality.

But the Skipper seemed pleased that Leopold had greeted him. “You’ve sure got yourself in a pickle, haven’t you?”

“I guess. How do I get out of here?”

“Beats me. I had three whole seasons and still couldn’t get myself off that damned uncharted island.”

Leopold leaned back against the couch cushions and groaned. Couldn’t he at least have been given a helpful vintage television visitor? MacGyver, maybe?

“You remind me a little of Gilligan,” said the Skipper. He sounded fond. “Poor guy was always getting into trouble. Of course, he was an idiot. We all were—even the Professor. If he was so smart, couldn’t he have rigged us a seaworthy boat out of coconuts or something?”

“Am I doomed to listen to critiques of TV shows that were cancelled thirty years before I was born?”

The Skipper chuckled. “Nah, little buddy. Anyway, in a few minutes Bewitched comes on. I just wanted to give you a little friendly advice.”

“Check the weather forecast before booking a three-hour boat tour?”

The Skipper removed his hat and waved it around, clearly wishing he could swat Leopold with it.

“Listen up. We might not have escaped the island, but we survived. And you know how? Ingenuity. We found new ways to make use of what we had. A few vines, a little bamboo, some brainpower… boom ! Now you’ve got a Geiger counter…

or maybe a sewing machine. Where’s your bamboo and coconut shells, little buddy? ”

Leopold stared at the screen for a long time. “I have no idea.”

The Skipper shrugged. “Well, maybe you should.”

Then he dissolved into a fuzz of gray static that was replaced by a cartoon witch, flying sidesaddle on a broom.