"I know I'm fine, I told you I'm fine," Mary Grace responds, tense and defensive, and she takes a full step away from the edge. "And the sixty-eight people who died from broom and other magical air travel accidents last year also thought they were fine."

Mary Grace knows that stat isn't particularly relevant, but there aren't any stats for people who died in magical dimensions controlled by drunk cicadas, and she doesn't trust that Pocket knows just how breakable humans are.

Still, her pride is on the line, and to show just how fine she is, Mary Grace takes peels her hand off the edge of the basket and folds her arms across her chest. "See? Fine. I trust the party bug as much as you do."