A scroll is delivered by a producer dressed as a minor Greek god (Hermes, probably—though the wings are taped on).
tries mindfulness. “I am a tree,” she whispers. The Dthrip climbs her arm. At five minutes, she feels its filaments stroke her neck. She twitches. The Dthrip’s hum becomes a shriek inside her skull—her own childhood fears, her mother’s voice, every bad review. She screams “GET ME OUT OF HERE” before Dimitri can even ask. Her crown is forfeit. Only Kai and Dr. Amina remain. A scroll is delivered by a producer dressed
Twenty celebrities have been whittled down to six. The remaining campmates are half-delirious from a diet of rice, mysterious gristle, and the occasional fig stolen from a bush that may or may not be sacred to Dionysus. The Dthrip climbs her arm
“Tomorrow, you face the Dthrip. One celebrity will be crowned King or Queen of the Dthrip. The rest… will remember.” The Dthrip’s hum becomes a shriek inside her
The Dthrip stops humming. It tilts its faceless body. Then, slowly, it crawls off her and back into its wicker cage. As it passes her hand, one filament touches her palm—not a threat. A salute.
Mama Rosa whispers, “Still. I’m never saying that word again.”
Amina smiles.
© 2026 — Pioneer Junction
