Looking out of a window while simultaneously standing, Dawson Filter sighed. It was the first sigh in the rest of his life, he knew; but he also knew, as a side effect of looking out of the window, that he was on the moon. This is why he sighed.
“We are on the moon.” He told Twelve-Anne.
“I know, I saw the window.”
Dawson continued standing. He decided to think; and before he knew it, he was talking.
“Thing: We still need to save Sylvester’s life.”
“That works out nicely, given that I just created a twelve step plan for how to do so via my mind.” Twelve-Anne offered.
“That sounds like the sort of twelve step plan I would like to hear.” Dawson affirmed, words and all.
“Step 1:” She began, “Build a space shuttle out of scrap metal and love. Step 2: Fly said shuttle to Earth. To avoid death during this step, stay safe. Step 3: Sail from Point A to Manhattan. Step 4: Use foot to go to 79th Street. Step 5: Ensure that you are positioned outside of the only shack on the street besides Simôn’s Aromatherapy. Step 6: Take a brief moment to celebrate that you have reached the halfway point in your quest. Step 7: Open a door. Step 8: Enter the shack through the doorway, which you should have just rid of all doors. Step 9. Find Sylvester Denny strapped to a chair in a darkened room. Step 10: Remove Sylvester from chair. Step 11: Remove any desire to stay with chair from Sylvester’s heart. Step 12: Sail out of Manhattan, Sylvester Denny in hand.”
Dawson nodded and built a space shuttle.
“That’s all well and good, but the rocket would be marginally more useful outside.” Twelve-Anne pointed outwardly, “And it’s too dazzlingly large and sturdily built to fit through the door.”
“Well, if we can’t bring the rocket outside, I suppose we’ll simply have to bring outside to the rocket.”
“That sounds to be a real problem, what with the roof and everything.”
“And real problems require real screwdrivers.” Dawson said, tossing aside a jar of oatmeal.
Dawson Filter began to point around the room, and Twelve-Anne followed his finger’s ray with her vision’s field. He pointed first to the screws holding the ceiling in place; then to a table. On top of this table rested a line of screwdrivers, each glistening in the moonlight (Assuming that any light originating from, and not just reflecting off of, the moon counts as moonlight. This particular moonlight was generated by the lamps lining the walls of the room.) He ran his finger parallel to the line, muttering:
“So which is the real screwdriver?”
“Didn’t this room used to be empty, save for three cabinets, four lamps, air, a doormat reading “Alive”, and a rug?” Twelve-Anne asked anyone.
Dawson blew across the table. He cast a handful of dust onto the drivers; but it landed the same on all of them. The false screwdrivers seemed to nearly perfect replicas. He took one in his hand. It felt real; but of course it would. He set it down. He did this for several more; when Twelve-Anne suggested that they just try each one until one proved to be a real screwdriver, and the roof fell. This was the case for the first.
The drywall collapsed on a “Huzzah!” saying Dawon Filter, who took Twelve-Anne by the wrist, and ran into the shuttle. She pushed the only button he had bothered to put in, and the craft took off on a pillar of fun. The duo discussed their plans for the future, their mutual fear of dying alone, and other such nonsense.
They only had eleven steps left now, they knew; eleven giant leaps for mankind. Please forgive me for the previous sentence.