There was an unwarranted pang that shot through him even as he laughed, vines slipping out to put disappointments away in their cases so they never had to look at them again. There was a stupid little whisper that Bulba steadfastly tried to ignore: you're still wasting his time.

No, he told himself, slipping the next movie into the tray. Not today.

"You're probably right."

And then there was a pretty morning field on the screen. The sun was rising on their unforseen foe.

The period piece was here.