Surrey Main, ME

Robert awoke with a start, tangled in floral bed sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and expired bubble gum, the cottage, too warm and too cozy, wrapped around him like a grandmother's overlong hug. His first thought: Where the hell was he? His second : Why was he wearing a Victorian nightgown? Then. A knock. Not a polite tap, but a theatrical assault ! Rat-a-tat-tat, pause, BOOM. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, BOOM. Like someone was determined to audition for Stomp: The Musical using only the front door. Robert bolted upright, nearly throttled by lace. His foot caught on a knit ottoman shaped like a teacup, sending him stumbling forward with all the grace of a collapsing bookshelf. His nightgown billowed behind him like a haunted doily in distress. He didn't hesitate. No breath. No thought. He swung the door open with the fury of a man ready to arrest a poltergeist. And there—glowing like a fever dream in the morning mist—stood a woman with curls like fireworks a...

  Chapter Two Arrival at Surrey Main A small station. Covered in fog. Light from lamps flickers like candles through milk. Benches shaped like birds. A sign: “Welcome to Surrey Main, You’ve Arrived!” Reflexively, Robert pulled out his phone. One bar. Maybe two. The screen lit up like a trap. No voicemails, but missed calls stacked up like a hit list—numbers he didn’t recognize, but knew by instinct. Reporters. Internal Affairs. Maybe even Furgo’s cowardly lawyer. Then, out of pure masochistic impulse, he opened Twitter. His name was trending. A flood of memes: a cartoon chicken wearing an FBI badge, someone deep-frying a rubber hen with the caption "Duluth's Lunch Special," a TikTok of someone reenacting his takedown with toy chickens and dramatic music. Tweets poured in: “Hey @FBI, you hiring poultry smugglers now?” “When your partner flips faster than a rotisserie.” “The Cluckening continues. #DuluthDrama” Facebook was worse. People he hadn’t spoken to i...