You hesitate, then point to the second option carved into the stump: A Really Tall Moose.

The man lowers his thermos slowly. Behind the mirrored lenses, you sense a deep, ancient disappointment.

He speaks in a low, mournful tone: “Even the tallest moose can’t see Toronto from the clouds.”

The eyebrowed stranger winces. Somewhere in the forest, a pinecone falls in judgment.

The man sighs and gestures for you to try again.