My little brother and I have been in a prank war for nineteen years that neither of us can remember the actual starting incident of, only that it involves, at some point, a garden gnome named Reginald who has been secretly relocated between our houses without permission at least forty times. "He showed up in my mailbox," my brother texted last month, a photo of Reginald wedged in sideways, paint slightly chipped from the move. "How." "I have my methods," I said, which meant I'd bribed his neighbor's kid with ten dollars and a Gatorade. The rules, unspoken but rigidly enforced, are that Reginald must always end up somewhere the other person will discover him alone, ideally somewhere mildly humiliating….. his gym bag once, my mother-in-law's Christmas gift box another time, which nearly ended the whole war permanently over an actual diplomatic incident with my wife's family. I found him in my glove compartment three weeks ago, a full eight months after I'd last placed him at his office desk, meaning he'd been sitting there patiently, undetected, through countless work commutes. "You beat my record," I told him, genuinely impressed despite myself. "I had help," he admitted. "Your wife let me into your car. She's been on my side since the Christmas incident." I confronted her. She didn't even deny it, just shrugged and said, "He does the voices when he tells the story. You just glare at me until I feel bad. Reginald deserves better content." Reginald is currently in my attic, waiting. My brother doesn't know yet. He will.