[ gingerly avoiding the first question, Miguel slumps down next to him with the expected creak of rustled chair legs. The mask blinks away with a thought, feeling a little more private in a sequestered room. How on earth should he even start? ]

Yes, I've noticed that.

[ The red thread gets plucked like a guitar string by a curved talon. It does not fray at all from the sharpness or the friction. They were well and truly Stuck Together. ]

You've been trapped more than once. Did your string say the same thing each time?