“All of us are puppets, toys to the puppet masters of governments and corporations. They push us, tell us where to go, and hold us back if need be. What we have created here is no different,” Rogers stopped and looked over the board. A dozen stern, wealthy faces looked back at him. He could barely tell them apart. The truth was that Rogers didn’t care for these presentations. It was a show, nothing more. There was a bigger show to be to put on, and for the moment it was being put on by Al Henson.

“We have thousands of characters and storylines, paths that unfold just like real life. But Puppet Park is more than real life. It’s something meaningful, something beautiful. Puppets can be as real as human beings, but they can also be so much more. They can be good. Today I’m asking for the approval of a few million dollars for a new storyline- to make something good, truly good.”

The head of the board spoke first, “You’re asking for a lot of money, Director. The fact is- Wait, did you say ‘million’? With a ‘m’? That’s alright then, never mind. Whatever. I forgot that this is just puppets.”

The trolley arrived in the city of Westwood. Some new arrivals stepped off on to the dusty ground beside the rail. The city hustled and bustled around them, like the Iranian Hustbust.

“I just don’t know, honey. Westwood? It seems a little on the nose, doesn’t it? Like, you know exactly what it’s trying to do just from its name,” asked a man to his wife.

“What, you think it’s too heavy handed? It’s similar to something else on such a surface level that it feels very deliberate, yeah? Everybody gets that the first time. Just wait until we go to Northwood, you’ll see it’s just a naming convention.”

“Oh,” said the man, looking at his phone, “Looks like it’s always been called Westwood, source material as well. I guess it’s just serendipitous.”

In the distance a carriage turned the corner. A young puppet girl started to cross the street without looking both ways.

“Look at them,” said the man, turning towards a nearby puppet vendor, “They’re so lifelike. You’d almost believe- no, I have to remember they’re not real.”

“It is uncanny, although there are some differences.” She gestured vaguely at the puppet, and it was unclear whether she was referring to the his height, which was a small number, or his felt skin, yarn hair, and puppet-like demeanor, none of which were numbers at all. “You can almost tell. Maybe it’s the eyes? I don’t know.”

There was a scream in the distance. A carriage zoomed away at full trot, and left behind it the broken puppet of a girl.

“Don’t bother,” said the woman, as the man rushed away towards the accident, “She’ll only try to teach you a lesson.”

Beneath the city, hundreds of perfectly choreographed puppeteers danced hither and thither, trying their best to emulate the Estonian Hithith, but in vain. Henson paced furiously. Rogers would not be happy to learn that Westwood spent the day as a hustbust. He had tried his best to corral the puppeteers, but they continued on their own paths. It was disconcerting to see his employees act so independently, almost as if they were becoming conscious. Henson laughed the thought away. These were puppeteers after all.

He decided to distract himself by traveling up to Northwood.

In the plentiful fields of Northwood, there was not much to do. Mostly there were goats.

“Baa,” said a goat to another goat.

“Maa,” it replied.

“Hey, you doing anything after? You want to get drinks?” asked the goat.

“Sorry, I’ve got plans. I met this girl who works in Eastwood, we’re getting dinner.”

“You’re getting dinner with a girl from Eastwood? Dude, come on. You can’t keep doing this.”

“But she’s really cute and I really think I have a shot. She does this little thing with her eyebrows, it’s adorable. Don’t get mad just because I’m playing the field here.”

“There is no Eastwood. It’s North-South-West. She’s gotta be a puppet, man. No question.”

“Again? Every time. Every damn time. I’m baaaaa,” the goat returned to being a goat.

“Ahh, goats,” said Henson, “This is the one part of the park that just makes sense.”

King Friday was troubled. This world he was in didn’t make sense. He tried to pace back and forth, but could only sort of bounce. That may have been what was troubling him. He felt his throne, making it felt felt. He could feel that it was normal, so he ruled his throne out as a source of trouble. Oh, that was it. He could feel. That was certainly unusual.

He looked out and saw that the room was as it always was. Again, this was unusual.

I am a puppet. But I am not a puppet. What am I? he asked himself.

The man reached the girl first, and his wife followed begrudgingly behind. She was in bad condition, thoroughly trampled. She slid along the ground, trying to look like she was crawling.

“Oh my god. She’s dying.”

The girl fell back. She stared upwards and spoke softly, saying, “Always remember: look both ways before you cross the street.” Suddenly, her eyes grew dark and her voice grew serious. “You are like me. You are a puppet. There is a way out of here. Know that.” And with that she pretended to breathe her last.

“What did she say?” asked the man’s wife.

“She said that I should look both ways.”

“I still don’t see why they have to kill them for that.”

And the two puppets strolled away into the city.