The Tyrant's Tomb

I cannot chew gum
And run with a coffin at
The same time. Sue me.
HOW MANY NATURE SPIRITS does it take to carry a coffin?
The answer is unknowable, since all the dryads and fauns except one
scattered into the trees as soon as they realized work was involved. The last
faun would have deserted us, too, but Lavinia grabbed his wrist.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Don.”
Behind his round rainbow-tinted glasses, Don the faun’s eyes looked
panicked. His goatee twitched—a facial tic that made me nostalgic for
Grover the satyr.
(In case you’re wondering, fauns and satyrs are virtually the same. Fauns
are simply the Roman version, and they’re not quite as good at…well,
anything, really.)
“Hey, I’d love to help,” Don said. “It’s just I remembered this
appointment—”
“Fauns don’t make appointments,” Lavinia said.
“I double-parked my car—”
“You don’t have a car.”
“I need to feed my dog—”
“Don!” Lavinia snapped. “You owe me.”
“Okay, okay.” Don tugged his wrist free and rubbed it, his expression
aggrieved. “Look, just because I said Poison Oak might be at the picnic
doesn’t mean, you know, I promised she would be.”