They consider that for a moment. Their eyes drift along the edges of the garden. They haven't found anything waiting. Sans did, though, didn't he? Right there where he left it. The other side is faded, where he turned it around. Faded from use, and from being scuffed up. From too many trips through the wash. Ha ha.

"I guess not," they agree at last, and the words are flat and even as a river-smoothed pebble.

They don't say anything else. Not right away. They look at him first, because - he's the one with the burning questions, isn't he? He's the one who can ask them. For once, let him be the anomaly, the driving force, the actor instead of the reactor. Let him see how many wrong answers he can conjure up.

So. What does he want to know?

Let's just get to the point.