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Four minutes I have missed six times.

Not tonight.

I send my avatar to the west side of the forest.

The first patch is empty.

“Where is it?” I circle the tree.

Nothing.

Three minutes.

My knee bounces against the beanbag.

I check behind the fallen log, a pointless move. It never spawns there.

Nothing.

Two minutes.

“Come on.”

The light on the screen deepens from lavender to violet. A pulse of blue flickers between two trees.

There.

A single flower unfurls beneath the ruined stone arch, its petals emitting a soft, pixelated glow over the dark grass.

I walk over to it with none of the urgency it deserves.

One minute.

My avatar reaches the flower.

I hit harvest.

TWILIGHT BLOOM ×1

“Yes!” I throw both hands into the air, and the handheld almost goes with them.

I catch it against my chest and try to stand, but the beanbag swallows my momentum. I flail, half-rolling, half-climbing out of it as the in-game clock keeps ticking.

The mayor’s house icon appears at the top of the screen with a little exclamation point above it.

The flower isn’t enough.

I still have to reach the market before it closes.

“Move, you stupid farmer.”

My avatar ambles along as if it has all the time in the world, while my foot beats out a rapid tap on the floor.

The screen transitions to the town square, and the mayor’s pixel avatar stands on the steps of his house, hands clasped behind his back.

The dialogue box opens.

MAYOR: Well, well! A blue celestial! It’s been years since I’ve seen one of those in our humble town. You must have quite the green thumb, young farmer.