Plork woke up feeling less circular than usual. He checked the mirror—his edges were… pointy. Triangular. Unacceptable. He wrapped himself in a round-patterned blanket and rolled to work at the Department of Spherical Affairs.
His boss, a perfect orb named Mr. Glemb, eyed him suspiciously. “Plork, you seem… sharp today.”
Plork forced a laugh. “Just a trick of the light!”
At lunch, his coworkers effortlessly bounced while he clunked awkwardly. Someone whispered, “Not so round anymore, is he?”
Plork panicked. He bought expensive curvature creams, slept in a shape-smoothing chamber, even hired a roundness coach. But each morning, the points remained.
One evening, defeated, he sat in a park. Nearby, a jagged cube and a wobbly star chatted happily. They noticed him.
“You new here?” the cube asked.
“I… I don’t know what I am,” Plork admitted.
The star grinned. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”
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