Punch First, Ask Questions Later

Once upon a time — and I mean a very square time, in a very square world, where even the sun was a square and nobody thought that was strange — two boys woke up in the middle of a wide green field with absolutely, positively, completely *nothing*.

No tools. No food. No house. No shoes with laces, even, because in this world shoes don't have laces, which is honestly one of the best things about it.

The first boy sat up, blinked at the square sun, and immediately started organizing.

His name was Miles. He was thirteen years old, and he was the kind of boy who alphabetized his thoughts. If you gave Miles a rainy afternoon, he would give you back a laminated schedule. He had already been awake for eleven whole seconds, and he had already made a plan.

"Okay," said Miles, standing up and dusting off his knees. "I have a plan. It has fourteen steps."

The second boy did not sit up. The second boy remained flat on his back in the grass like a starfish on vacation.

His name was Beno. Also thirteen. Beno was the kind of boy who once ate a crayon *on purpose*, to see if the color had a flavor. (He says purple tastes "round." Do not ask him about it. He will tell you for an hour.)

"Fourteen steps," said Beno, to the sky. "That's too many steps. I have a better idea. It has one step."

"Beno—"

"We dig straight down."

Now — I need to pause the story for just a moment, because you and I need to have a little talk. In this square world, there is exactly one rule everyone agrees on. One rule. And that rule is: *never dig straight down.* You could fall into a cave. You could fall into a lake. You could fall into a pool of lava and become, very briefly, the world's saddest firework.

Beno knew this rule. Everyone knows this rule.

"That," said Miles, "is a terrible idea."

"Is it though?"

"It's the *first* terrible idea of the day, and the sun just came up. I'm going to start counting them. That's Terrible Idea Number One."

"You can't count my ideas."

"I can and I will. It'll be like collecting stamps, except the stamps are dangerous."

Beno finally sat up, and his hair — which stuck straight up on one side, always, no matter what, like it was waving at someone — wobbled importantly. He looked around the field. Green grass in every direction. A few scattered trees. Some distant sheep. One of the sheep was staring at them. Chewing. Judging.

"Miles," said Beno. "Real question. Where's our stuff?"

"We don't have stuff."

"Where's our *house?*"

"We don't have a house."

"Where's *breakfast?*"

Miles paused. This was, he had to admit, the strongest of the three questions.

"Breakfast," said Miles, "is step nine."

"STEP NINE?" Beno clutched his stomach like it had personally betrayed him. "What are steps one through eight?!"

"Step one: assess the situation." Miles gestured at the field. "Situation: we have nothing. Assessed. Step two: gather wood. Step three: build a crafting table. Step four: make tools. Step five—"

"I stopped listening at step two," said Beno, standing up and stretching. "But I heard the word *wood*, and I want you to know I am the best in the entire world at punching trees."

"You've never punched a tree."

"That you *know of*."

And that, dear listener, is how the greatest adventure in the history of this square world began: with two boys, zero items, one judgmental sheep, and a fourteen-step plan that — I'll just tell you now — would not survive the morning.

They never do.

---

The nearest tree was an oak, standing alone at the edge of the field like it had wandered off from the other trees to get some peace and quiet. It was about to have a very bad day.

Beno marched up to it, rolled his shoulders, wound up his arm like a windmill, and delivered the mightiest punch of his young life.

He missed.

I want to be clear about how hard it is to miss a tree. A tree is a large, stationary object. It does not dodge. It does not duck. It has never once in the history of trees taken a single step to the left. And yet Beno's fist sailed past the trunk, spun him in a full circle, and deposited him gently into a bush.

The sheep, far away, made a sound that was technically "baa" but was clearly laughter.

"The wind took it," said Beno, from inside the bush.

"There's no wind."

"The wind was *inside me*, Miles."

Beno climbed out of the bush, picked a leaf off his ear, and looked at the tree — really looked at it — and then he said the thing. The important thing. The thing that neither boy realized was important, because important things at the beginning of stories always disguise themselves as jokes.

"You know what?" said Beno. "Maybe we don't need a perfect plan, Miles. Maybe we just need each other." He paused. "And also snacks."

Miles looked at him for a moment.

"That's very sweet," said Miles. "It's also step-skipping. Punch the tree."

(Remember what Beno said, though. Tuck it under your pillow. We're going to need it later, right at the very end of everything, and I don't want you to be surprised when a silly sentence turns out to be the truest thing in the whole story.)

This time, Beno took a deep breath, planted his feet, and began to narrate himself — because Beno could not do anything quietly, including breathing.

"He steps up to the tree!" Beno announced, in his Sports Voice, which was like his normal voice but with more spit. "The crowd goes silent! Benoooo... THE FIST... approaches the oak! He's trained his whole life for this moment—"

"You have not—"

"—HIS WHOLE LIFE, and here's the windup, and — POW!"

*Thock.*

His fist hit the trunk, and the strangest, most wonderful thing happened — the wood *crackled*, little lines spreading across it, and Beno punched it again — *thock* — and again — *thock* — and on the fourth punch the whole chunk of trunk went *pop* and shrank down into a tiny cube of wood, small as a gift, spinning in the air at knee height, waiting to be picked up.

Both boys stared at it.

"Miles," whispered Beno. "I punched a tree and it turned into a *present*."

"That's — okay, that's not exactly what happened—"

"THE TREE GIVES GIFTS WHEN YOU PUNCH IT, MILES. THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING."

And I'm sorry to report that it did not matter one bit what Miles said after that, because Beno had found his life's calling. For the next while, the peaceful morning field echoed with the sounds of *thock, thock, pop* and a thirteen-year-old boy hollering things like "ANOTHER GIFT!" and "THE FOREST LOVES ME!" while the floating remains of the tree's leaves hung in the air above him, dropping the occasional apple on his head.

The first apple hit him directly on the nose. He caught the second one with his face as well, but claimed he "caught it with his face on purpose," which is not a thing, but breakfast was breakfast. The boys split the apples sitting in the grass — crunch, crunch — and honestly? Apples you got by punching a tree yourself taste about four times better than regular apples. That's just science.

"Step nine, complete," said Beno, with his mouth full.

"That was NOT step nine, that was a snack—"

"Snacks are every step, Miles. Snacks are the *stairs*."

---

With an armful of wood cubes, Miles got to work on step three, which was the crafting table. Now, if you've never seen a crafting table, it is exactly what it sounds like: a table... that crafts. You put things on it, wiggle them around in just the right pattern, and they become *other* things. Wood becomes sticks. Sticks and wood become tools. Nobody knows how it works. The table has never explained itself.

Miles set it down in the grass with a satisfying *thunk*, and it stood there being extremely square and extremely helpful-looking.

Beno circled it slowly, suspicious.

"So it's a table," said Beno.

"It's a *crafting* table."

"That crafts."

"Yes."

Beno leaned down until his nose was almost touching the tabletop. "How?" he asked the table.

The table said nothing, on account of being a table.

"What's your secret?" whispered Beno. "Who taught you? Do you have a family? Are there... crafting *chairs?*"

"Beno, stop asking it questions."

"It KNOWS things, Miles!"

But even Beno had to admit the table delivered. Miles laid out wood and sticks in careful little patterns, and one by one the tools appeared: a wooden pickaxe, sturdy as anything. A wooden axe. A wooden shovel that Beno immediately held up to the sky like a legendary sword, going "*shiiing*" with his mouth because wooden shovels don't make that sound on their own.

"I shall call it..." Beno announced, "...Shovelina."

"Please don't name the tools."

"Too late. That one's Pickford." He pointed at the pickaxe. "That one's The Axe Formerly Known As Steve."

"None of these names are—"

"Shovelina DISAGREES."

And so, armed and extremely named, the boys turned to the next order of business, which was dinner — because in this world, the day is short, the night is full of nonsense, and a boy without food is a boy whose tummy rumbles so loudly it scares the fish.

Dinner, in a brand-new world, means one thing: farming, foraging, and the gentle art of chicken-chasing.

It went like this. Miles spotted a little group of chickens down by the pond, doing chicken things — pecking, wandering, forgetting what they were doing halfway through doing it. The plan (step six, if you're counting, which only Miles was) called for a calm, organized approach.

What actually happened was Beno yelled "DINNER PATROL!" at full volume and ran directly at the chickens, arms out like an airplane, and the chickens scattered like popcorn. He chased them in circles for a good long while — around the pond, through the reeds, over a little hill and back — until it became genuinely unclear who was chasing whom. At one point, I promise you, Beno was in *front*, and three chickens were running *after him*, and he was yelling "THIS ISN'T THE PLAN!"

Miles, meanwhile, quietly picked up eggs the chickens had left behind, dug up some wild carrots and potatoes with Shovelina (she was, he had to admit, excellent), and by the time Beno staggered back — feathered, defeated, dignity somewhere back in the reeds — dinner was already gathered.

"The chickens," Beno wheezed, "are organized. There's a leader. A mastermind. I felt it."

"Uh-huh." Miles held up a potato. "Look — food. Also, we should plant some of these. Farms make food *forever*. It's the best deal in the whole game."

Beno took the potato and looked at it with deep respect. Then deep suspicion.

"Miles. Serious question. If we plant the potato... and the potato grows more potatoes... who taught the potato to do that?"

"Nobody *taught* the—"

"The potato just KNOWS?"

"It's a potato!"

"That's what worries me, Miles. It's smarter than it looks. It's got all those eyes."

The potato, I should mention, won that argument — because while Beno was interrogating it, he tripped over a hole, dropped it, and the potato rolled gently downhill and landed perfectly in the little farm plot Miles had just tilled. *Plop.* Planted.

Beno stared.

"It planted ITSELF."

"You dropped it—"

"IT KNEW WHERE TO GO, MILES."

Score: Potato, one. Beno, zero. And that's the story of how their first farm got started — one self-planting potato, two rows of carrots, and a fence built slightly crooked because both boys agreed straight fences were "trying too hard."

But the very best thing that happened that afternoon — the thing that changed everything forever — happened just before sunset, and it happened because of a zombie.

Don't worry. Not a scary zombie. Zombies in this world are slow, green, extremely bad at their jobs, and they groan about everything like grumpy uncles at the beach. This particular zombie came shuffling out of the shady woods a little early, spotted the boys, groaned a very unconvincing groan — "*uuuuhhhhhh*" — and began shuffling toward the farm at the speed of cold syrup.

Miles reached for a plan. Beno reached for Shovelina.

But before either of them could do anything at all, something small and white and *furious* stepped between them and the zombie.

It was a chicken.

Not one of the pond chickens. A new chicken. A chicken with a look in her eye like she'd seen things. She planted her little feet in the dirt, puffed up her feathers, faced down a creature ten times her size... and growled.

Now — chickens cannot growl. Chickens do not have the equipment. What actually came out was sort of a *"grrr-BAWK"* — like a puppy sneezed inside a rubber duck. It was, objectively, the least frightening sound ever produced by a living creature.

The zombie stopped.

The zombie looked at this tiny, growling chicken.

And the zombie — I cannot explain this, I can only report it — turned around and shuffled *away*, groaning nervously, glancing back over its shoulder twice.

There was a long silence.

"Miles," said Beno, in a voice full of stars. "That's a wolf."

"That is a *chicken*."

"That is a WOLF, Miles. Wolves are brave. Wolves protect the pack. Did a chicken just protect the pack? I don't think so. Wolves did that. *She* did that." Beno knelt down in the dirt before the chicken, solemn as a knight. "I shall call her... Clucky."

"That's a chicken name!"

"It's a wolf name," said Beno, "for a wolf who happens to look like a chicken."

Clucky fixed Miles with one round golden eye. Then she growled again — *grrr-BAWK* — and marched past him to sit on the crafting table like she'd built it herself.

And look — between you and me, listener? She's a chicken. Of course she's a chicken. But please, *please* don't tell Clucky. She's doing her best, and honestly, she's going to turn out to be braver than both boys put together, so let's just let her have this one. Deal? Deal.

---

The sun was getting low now — sliding down the sky the way you slide down in your blankets when you're pretending you're not sleepy — and the boys still didn't have a house. In this world, that's a problem, because nighttime is when all the silly spooky things come out to shuffle and rattle around, and a boy with no walls is a boy who gets no sleep.

"Step twelve," said Miles. "Shelter. We'll do it properly. Foundation, walls, a door, windows facing east for the sunrise—"

"Or," said Beno, already digging into the hillside with Shovelina, "dirt."

"Beno."

"Dirt, Miles. Dirt now. Fancy later. That's the Beno Method."

And here's the embarrassing thing for Miles and his fourteen steps: the Beno Method *worked*. In about the time it takes to sing a song you only half remember, Beno had carved a cozy little room right into the hill, walled up the front with dirt blocks, and slapped a wooden door on it. It wasn't pretty. One wall was crooked. The ceiling dripped a bit of sand on your head if you closed the door too hard. There was a single torch, and exactly enough room for two boys and one chicken with strong opinions.

Beno stepped back and admired it, hands on his hips, absolutely glowing.

"Miles," he said. "Behold. I have built us a castle."

"It's a dirt hole."

"It's *Castle Benoworth*."

"You cannot name a dirt hole—"

"The naming ceremony is already complete, Miles. Clucky was there. She's the witness."

Clucky, sitting in the doorway, growled her agreement. *Grrr-BAWK.* Legally binding.

And that might have been the end of the day, right there — except that just as the last slice of square sun slipped below the hills, and the sky turned that deep sleepy purple it turns, they heard something. Out past the farm. Out where the shadows pooled under the trees.

A soft little *hisss*.

Now, in this world, a hiss is usually very bad news. A hiss usually means a creeper — those quiet green fellows shaped like a stack of sofa cushions, who have a habit of sneaking up behind people and then, well... going off like a firework with no sense of occasion.

Both boys froze. Slowly, slowly, they turned around.

There, at the edge of the torchlight, stood a creeper. Green. Quiet. Cushion-shaped. Looking right at them with its sad, gentle face — because creepers, if you've never seen one up close (and I recommend you never do), have the saddest little faces, like they've just remembered something they forgot to say.

The creeper tilted slightly to one side.

"Hello," it said, in the politest whisper you have ever heard. "Lovely evening. Hug?"

There was a pause approximately one thousand years long.

"RUN," said Miles.

"THANK YOU, NO THANK YOU!" hollered Beno over his shoulder, because even in a full sprint, Beno had manners.

The two boys and one chicken flew into Castle Benoworth and shut the dirt-and-wood door — *fwump* — and stood there in the torchlight, hearts pattering, listening.

From outside, faintly, politely: "...Perhaps another time. Sleep well."

And then soft footsteps, padding away into the night.

Beno looked at Miles. Miles looked at Beno.

"Did the creeper," said Beno slowly, "just wish us a good night?"

"I'm not thinking about it."

"Because it sounded *sincere*, Miles."

"I'm NOT thinking about it."

(He was thinking about it. So was Beno. So am I, honestly. Keep an eye on that creeper, listener. He's going to matter. I won't say another word about it — except to tell you that his name, though the boys don't know it yet, is Gerald, and Gerald never, ever, ever gives up on a hug.)

---

Inside the dirt hut, the night settled in like a heavy blanket.

The boys crafted two little beds from wood and the wool that judgmental sheep had — very grudgingly — donated earlier that day. (Sheep grow it right back, by the way, in case you were worried. She was fine. Still judging, but fine, and slightly more aerodynamic.) The beds were red and soft and took up almost the whole floor of Castle Benoworth, and that was just right.

Outside, the world made its nighttime noises. The moon — square, of course — rose over the potato farm. Somewhere far off, a zombie groaned about zombie problems. Rain began to fall, gentle and steady, going *pat... pat... pat* on the grass roof of the hill above them, and there is no sound in any world, square or round, better than rain on a roof when you're warm inside.

Miles lay on his bed with his hands behind his head, going over the day.

"We started with nothing," he said quietly. "Zero items. And now we've got tools, a farm, a house—"

"A *castle*."

"—a castle, dinner, beds..." He counted on his fingers. "You know what, Beno? Only four of my fourteen steps happened. And in the wrong order. And one of them was replaced by you being chased by chickens."

"Best step," said Beno, into his pillow.

"And it still all worked out." Miles frowned at the ceiling, like it had told him a riddle. "How does that work?"

But Beno didn't answer, because Beno was already ninety percent asleep, and the last ten percent was thinking about breakfast. "Terrible Idea Number Two," he mumbled, eyes closed. "Tomorrow... we teach the potatoes... to farm *themselves*..."

"That's not — the potato thing was an accident — Beno, that's not even how..."

"Mm. Night, Miles."

"...Night, Beno."

And then, in the dark, there came one more sound. A small, feathery, fluffing-up sort of sound, as Clucky the wolf — fine, fine, Clucky the *chicken*, but don't you dare tell her — hopped up and settled down to sleep in her favorite spot in the entire world, which turned out to be directly on top of Miles's head.

"Beno. The chicken is on my head."

"The *wolf* is *guarding* you, Miles. It's an honor."

Miles sighed the sigh of a boy who knows he has lost. The feathers were, he had to admit, quite warm.

And as the rain went *pat, pat, pat*, and the torch flickered low, and two very tired boys sank down into their brand-new beds in their brand-new world, Clucky did the thing she would do every single night from now on — though the boys didn't know that yet.

She sang.

Well — "sang." It was a strange, warbling, wobbly little sound, half cluck and half hum, rising and falling like a lullaby written by someone who had only ever heard lullabies described over a bad phone connection. *Brrr-buk-buk-brooooo. Brrr-buk-buk-brooooo.* It was ridiculous. It was beautiful. It was both at once, which is the best kind of thing to be.

It meant: *the pack is safe. Sleep now.*

And they did.

The moon sailed on over the little dirt castle, the crooked fence, the sleeping farm, and one polite creeper waiting patiently under a tree for tomorrow.

And far, far away — farther than any map, past every forest and desert and mountain in the world, in a strange dark place where the stars are different — something enormous and ancient turned over in its thousand-year watch, and yawned.

But that, little listener, is a story for another chapter.

Goodnight, Castle Benoworth.

*Brrr-buk-buk-brooooo.*