It was, indeed, a sewing room, not that Clint had much expertise with sewing rooms. The walls clearly hadn't been redecorated, though. A big Captain America poster hung beside the outside window, partially obscured now by the dressmaker's dummy. There were photos on the wall, and Phil's mother stepped over, beckoning Clint over and pointing to them.

"This is Phil when he first started Boy Scouts," she said, pointing to a picture of a serious-looking young boy who couldn't be anybody else. "Here's Phil and his junior prom date- shame about the dance, but they were good enough to take back his tux even with the scorch marks. Here he is with his cousin Emily- oh, and this one is from when Phil was in the Boys Brigade of the Sheriff's Secret Police," Mrs. Coulson said, brimming with pride. "Doesn't he look so precious in his little cape and his balaclava?"

"Mom," Phil muttered, embarrassed.

It was at that very moment that Clint realized that none of this was a joke. This was not Phil's tour de force performance; this was not the best-executed prank in the history of all time. This was simply where Phil came from, and it was terrifying.

“You know, when I look back on my life less than twenty percent of my woes could be attributed to Night Vale in some way. About twenty percent more were happenstance that can happen anywhere. The remaining sixty percent were straight white men. I was starting to forget that."