Bootstuck begins the day with a greeting both dramatic and obvious: “Here I am. Look at my face eyes.” From there, the conversation turns lunar. The townsfolk celebrate the moon depending on its fullness—full moons get full howls, half moons get hoots, and cloudy nights simply mean supper. This tradition, naturally, comes from a wild dog.

Dinner is also a focus, thanks to the arrival of 72 cans of dinosaur soup. The red-sauced noodles shaped like brontosauruses and spiky dinosaurs quickly become the new staple, though the question remains whether a brontosaurus tastes different from, say, a camel-shaped cracker.

Between meals and moonlight, Bootstuck’s radios start pulling in mysterious commercials, including one particularly insistent ad for “Ributon” or maybe “Rabutol,” promising to cure tiredness with suspicious zeal. The cross-talk raises questions about whether they’re speaking to the outside world or just another misfired frequency.

Finally, the town hints at its next big ambition: “Building Bootstuck”—a television program to document their expansion, exposure, and maybe even notoriety. Press is press, after all, and in Bootstuck there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

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