Earth's Endless Effort

By Gerald M. Weinberg

When a pipeline project threatens to cut LAFE's brain in half, LAFE overcomes long-standing antipathy toward human beings and seeks the aid of Daphne DeFreest. But first they must heal her broken body and find a way to communicate. This is their story.

Because she's changed in many tree-like ways, Daphne first has to make herself presentable to a society that doesn't favor green skin, nails, and blood. To gain time for her to raise money for defense, LAFE organizes a delaying campaign against the trenchers, aided by his forest resources (skunks, wasps, raccoons, bears, and heaven knows what else). He manages to delay until the crew must stop digging for the winter—when he must go dormant.

By the time LAFE wakes in the spring, Daphne still hasn't quite enough money for LAFE's defense. They must find a way to connect LAFE to the internet, where he can use his magnificent computing power to help Daphne attempt a daring coup. Unfortunately, her ruthless cousin Russell notices her coup in the financial press.

To Daphne's disappointment, her friend Mikio hires onto the staff of the World Economic Planner (WEP), a giant computer buried in a mountain near Geneva, Switzerland. After he leaves, Russell has Daphne drugged, kidnapped, and committed to a private asylum in the Adirondacks.

With the help of animals directed remotely by LAFE, she tries to escape through the woods to Canada then return to Colorado, only to discover there's another threat to LAFE, a lumber company with plans to turn LAFE into a vertically integrated chip-board factory.

LAFE equips Daphne with tree-like defenses, but LAFE is going to sleep again. For her protection, he sends her to Bangladesh, to meet a giant mangrove entity, Nuha. Together, Nuha and Daphne will continue investing in hopes of being able to repeat their triumph.

But without the aid of LAFE's thinking, Nuha and Daphne are losing the financial race, until Mikio adds WEP's computing power to their team. Nuha, Daphne, and WEP are catching up—until a tropical cyclone puts Nuha out of commission.
Nuha improves. To fight taxes, Daphne flies to New York, where her old boyfriend Gil tells her how Russell has been sabotaging her investment plans. Daphne goes on the offensive and turns Russell's tricks back on him. But Russell is not averse to illegal tactics.

By now it's spring, and LAFE awakes. Mikio hooks up LAFE and WEP to fight Russell, but the plan backfires, as LAFE and WEP apparently fall "in love," consuming all their computing power talking to each other.

Gil's group of save-the-aspens fanatics plan to burn down the forest if Daphne fails to take control of the forest. LAFE thinks a forest first would be better than a chipboard factory, since he would survive in the long run as long as his root system is intact.

Daphne cannot stand the idea of losing LAFE for her lifetime. She struggles to find a different way of saving LAFE, and almost gives up to the arsonists' idea, when another Russell attack on her kills one of her friends. Then Gil's arsonists, believing she will lose the control fight, put their fiery plan into action.

With the help of the entire mountain community, Daphne successfully fights the fire, but learns that LAFE's memory of her has been destroyed. In the hospital, nursing her injuries from the fire, she falls into a deep depression.

What will she do? So as not to spoil the story, we'll let you read the conclusion for yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerald M. Weinberg
• Release date: Aug 16, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452352046

Gerald M. Weinberg

Gerald M. Weinberg (Jerry) writes "nerd novels," such as The Aremac Project, Aremac Power, First Stringers, Second Stringers, The Hands of God, Freshman Murders, and Mistress of Molecules—about how brilliant people produce quality work. His novels may be found as eBooks at or on Kindle. Before taking up his science fiction career, he published books on human behavior, including Weinberg on Writing: The Fieldstone Method, The Psychology of Computer Programming, Perfect Software and Other Fallacies, and an Introduction to General Systems Thinking. He also wrote books on leadership including Becoming a Technical Leader, The Secrets of Consulting (Foreword by Virginia Satir), More Secrets of Consulting, and the four-volume Quality Software Management series. He incorporates his knowledge of science, engineering, and human behavior into all of writing and consulting work (with writers, hi-tech researchers, and software engineers). Early in his career, he was the architect for the Mercury Project's space tracking network and designer of the world's first multiprogrammed operating system. Winner of the Warnier Prize and the Stevens Award for his writing on software quality, he is also a charter member of the Computing Hall of Fame in San Diego and the University of Nebraska Hall of Fame. The book, The Gift of Time (Fiona Charles, ed.) honors his work for his 75th birthday. His website and blogs may be found at http://www.geraldmweinberg.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1.

It was all rather fun until Daphne saw the shotguns. I'm assuming they were shotguns.

That's what someone in the crowd called them. Whatever they were, they looked dangerous.

Now she was running from the shotguns. For her life. How did this happen? Gil said it was going to be a peaceful demonstration.

I should have known better. Gil is a sweet guy, but totally spacey.

She paused for an instant when she reached an opening in the trees, its flat green meadow filled with white flowers with yellow centers. I should be able to run faster on that open grass.

She stepped out in the clearing. Four steps in, her foot squished in the swampy ground. The forest will be better.

She took a moment to back up out of the swamp, carefully planting each foot in its footprint.

Once on solid ground, she sucked three deep breaths while she picked the most likely direction through the trees. Every time I have to double back, I'm losing my lead.

She began to run again. Wisely, she lowered her pace to match her longest runs through Central Park. Maybe I'm in better condition than those pipe workers.

Pipe workers? Why do I care anyway about a pipeline through Kebler Forest? Why did I ever let Gil talk me into coming to his demonstration?

The familiar pace felt good. The trees were a bit farther apart here, too. I'm making better time–

Her boot dropped into a gopher hole, throwing her face down in the soft earth. Damn. Pay attention.

She thought her only damage was soiled jean, until she grabbed a small tree and pulled herself upright. The pain was so violent, she lost consciousness for an instant and fell back down.

Even with no more weight on it, her ankle throbbed violently. Gil's the only one who knows I'm here, and he was a battered mess back there. I hope he's okay, but he's not coming any time soon. Can I afford to just lay here until help comes?

The threatening voices of KNG's hired security guards urged her to stand. Heck, if he's in a coma or something, help might never come. I'll have to take care of myself.

She was halfway standing when the jagged pain from her ankle raced up her shin, dumping her back to the ground. Damn, before this morning, I'd never even heard of Kebler Natural Gas. Not even their common stock. Now they're trying to kill me, so get up!

The pain pulsed up her leg, stopping only where it penetrated her knee. And stayed. I need a crutch. Or two.

She found a stick to help her rise to her feet. A sharp branch in the handle stabbed her palm, but she hung on.

She moved her hand, then put her weight on the makeshift cane. It snapped. She lurched into a thick white tree trunk and hung on, sliding down safely to sit in the cushion of damp, cold leaves. I think this is one of those aspens we came to save. Now it's saving me.

Cautiously relinquishing the small shelter of the tree, she groped around her and found a better staff. Wiser now, she tested the crutch without standing. Crack! That was the only one long enough. Maybe I should just hide behind the tree. Don't be stupid. This tree couldn't hide me if I was size two.

Just out of reach, she saw a larger limb that showed promise. She crawled a throbbing few steps toward it. Suddenly, the ground darkened. A shadow? Of what? Why can't I just crawl into some safe hole and hide from everybody? Every thing?

Reluctantly, she craned her neck. The sky between the branches radiated an unchanging cloudless blue. She scanned the horizon, what little she could see between the blocking aspens. Who's there? she whispered dryly. No answer.

She held herself utterly still. Then she remembered. The sun just set behind Marcellina Mountain. It's like a skyscraper at sunset, you idiot. There's no giant grizzly bear shadowing over you.

The shadow brought back an idea. If I can just manage to hide myself until dark, they may give up. And, I'll have a better chance of sneaking out in the dark—if my whole leg doesn't stiffen up.

As if to support her idea, the voices were growing farther away—until she heard two shotgun blasts in quick succession. All the moisture drained from her mouth. How far away was that?

Looking back toward the sound, she could see nothing in the dimming light. She hoped to see bushes to hide in, but the thick stand of trees shut out virtually all large undergrowth. Pain or no pain, I have to move a bit, to change my perspective.

Keeping as low as possible, she crawled into the center of a ring of young aspens. Her good knee pressed down on a pebble. She yelped in anguish. Be more careful, you moron. I'm sure everyone heard that all the way to Crested Butte.

She dropped flat, listening for her stalkers. After counting to a hundred and hearing nothing, she dared to move again. Biting down hard on a small stick, she moved into the circle of trees, brushing leaves with her. When she finally lay down, she swept the golden leaves over her as best she could. Now be patient. And quiet.

After a few minutes, she managed to still her breathing enough to hear voices approaching in the distance. Twice, she estimated they came within twenty feet of her. Each time they passed on by, she swore an oath to herself. If I get out of this alive, I will never—ever—, allow myself ...

What? Allow myself to be talked into dating someone my father thinks will make a good stud for his grandchildren? Or how about I will always choose my own friends—but Gil's my friend, just not a boy-friend. Most of those are only after my money, anyway.

Maybe it's better to have no friends at all. Easy to say, lying here. Maybe I should swear off friends altogether—not that I have any outside of work.

She began to cry, though she had no idea why. That's it. I'll stick to business. At least the people at work are honest about it. They like me because I can make money for them.

She must have dozed off then because the next thing she knew, she she was opening her eyes to utter darkness. Damn, I didn't want it to be this dark. Have to move, but my knee's on strike. My ankle, too.

She retrieved a skinny branch and used it to drag a fatter stick to her. Maybe this one will hold me. Maybe I should lose some weight.

For a test, she jabbed the new stick hard into the damp soil. It sank two inches, hit a rock, but stayed whole.

She leaned herself on this stout cane and pushed herself upright. Maybe I'll wreck my shoulders, too.

But the stick and her shoulders held out against her weight. She remained standing and cautiously and limped ahead. This direction should take me out to the road. I think.

Moving again in the dark, she managed to crash her good knee into a rotting stump. New pain. New joint. Oh, no. Is this really happening to me?

The pain had a purpose—goading her onward, repeating a mantra, one step at a time. I am strong. I can keep going. Ignore the—.

One foot hung out over the ledge before she saw it in the dim starlight. Without her injuries, she might have retained her balance.

Chapter 2.

Daphne dreamed she was walking—strolling, rather than her usual stockbroker's brisk striding. Down Wall Street, past the Exchange and the five marble steps leading to DeFreest and Son. Why didn't I stop at the office?

Her ambling pace made little progress. The workaday mob seemed to brush past her with ease. For some reason, she stopped at every tree, examining it from each exposed root to the tip of the crown. Why do I think something's wrong with these trees? They're the same as they've always been.

She tried to hurry, but some force held her back, insisting that every tree receive its full assessment. Finally she reached The Gloaming, the chic watering hole, her meeting place with Gil Delmonico on their lunch date. Why did I accept in the first place? I guess a platonic date is better than no date at all, though Gil doesn't seem to think it's platonic.

She descended the familiar, foot-worn stairs with renewed speed, hesitating only when she saw Gil waving weakly from the far corner table.

She hesitated. Somehow she knew Gil intended to invite her to accompany him to a save-the-trees demonstration somewhere west of the Hudson. She may have fooled herself before, but now she knew his interest was seduction, not trees. Daddy probably encouraged Gil to ask me. He's worried that I'll soon be too old to have children to perpetuate the family business. I suppose he thinks of Gil as a suitable stud.

Gil rarely listens to anything I say other than about stocks and bonds, not that I ever talk about much else. He does know how much I care about ecosystems. At least theoretically, but he's the activist, always traveling to some demonstration out West. I suppose he hopes to use my zeal to lure me into a compromising situation. Her stomach protested the thought.

This walk, this meeting at The Gloaming, had happened before—but without her awareness of his motives. Or the dangers of an aspen forest. He's a nice enough guy, but not that way. I didn't know how to decline his invitation without hurting his feelings. Well, someone has given me a second chance, a déjà vu. This time, I'll refuse. Stand my ground.

But she was not in control–her dream was. Suddenly, magically, she was sitting at the table, across from him, nursing a lime and tonic while he made the pitch she'd heard before. You've never been out West. You need to see Colorado's forests.

She made her best effort to avoid repeating their previous conversation, yet heard herself say, I've been to the great forests of Europe—Finland, Sweden, even Retezat National Park in Romania. How different can they be?

You've never seen redwoods.

She waited while a server put a plate in front of her. She knew it was the same thing she'd ordered before, but couldn't remember what, even when looking at it. You want me to go to Colorado. There's no redwoods in Colorado. Even I know that. Besides, I saw the redwoods in Europe.

His face showed doubt. European redwoods?

In Geneva. In Scotland. Gifts from America. They're over a hundred-and-fifty years old.

That's nothing. Nothing. Just babies. Some of the California redwoods are two thousand years old. And there's lots of them. A forest. And the Colorado aspen forest we're going to save is more remarkable than that. It might be 50,000 years old.

When she pushed her plate away and frowned her disbelief, he backed off a bit. At least 8,000 anyway. Fundamentally, the so-called forest consists of a single plant, one of the largest living things on Earth. Bigger than Manhattan Island.

She knew he must be exaggerating, but in spite of her determination, he'd captured her interest—for a second time. And he knows it.

Moments later, Gil reached across the table to caress her cheek, mumbling hypnotically, You really want to help the aspens. Help the aspens. Help ... the ... aspens.

His touch reminded her of his clumsy attempt at seduction back at the hotel in Crested Butte, she didn't like him touching her—brushing her face. But the hotel came later? The hotel! It's a dream.

She remembered driving up into the mountains from the hotel, confronting the KNG guards, running through the woods, and ... And what?

Something brushed her face. Not a dream. She tried to open her eyes. Nothing happened.

Something was covering her eyes, something soft, like hospital bandages. Where am I?

She wanted to check the bandages, but her arms wouldn't move. Am I paralyzed?

She twitched her arms and felt a gentle restraint. No, I think I'm strapped down. That's a lot better. Not great, but not paralyzed.

Where am I? she wanted to say, but something soft stuffed her mouth. Not unpleasant, but it prevented her from even humming.

Her nose was stuffed, too, but she could breathe—or at least she didn't seem to be suffocating. I'm in some kind of intensive care unit, all hooked up. At least someone's taking care of me. But what's wrong?

As best she could, she checked her body's orifices. Her ears felt stuffed—and now she noticed the unearthly quiet. Shouldn't I hear the monitors beeping? It's more like a sensory deprivation tank.

She continued checking her body. When she realized what other parts had also been invaded, she panicked. My God! This is no hospital!

Ma'awa'i. a slow, deep voice resonated in her head, even though her ears were stopped. Ma'awa'i.

Somehow, someone was talking to her. She had no idea how. Or what they were saying. Yet somehow the word soothed. A warm feeling flushed through her veins, then seeped out everywhere, penetrating every cell. After a moment of struggling against the feeling, she fell asleep.

Later—a minute, a day, she had no way to tell—the voice woke her. Navuagantü. The word repeated several times. She thought the voice sounded male—a large, barrel-chested male.

A picture appeared in her mind. A woman, she thought, but then she saw a Native American man with flowing black hair, standing in an aspen forest, wearing only a leather loincloth and a beaded armband. She had no idea of his size, though he held a bow almost his height.

After a moment, the picture faded, replaced by a more distant picture of the aspen forest—without the man. No, not just a picture, a moving picture. The branches were swaying, and the leaves were quaking. Quaking aspens.

Huvuagantü, the voice said, but she had zero idea what that meant.

Is it the word for forest? Or man? I speak English, plus Dutch, French, German, and Swedish. Enough Italian to dine and attend the opera.. Even a few words of Japanese, from socializing with the brokerage's clients. None of these helped with "Huvuagantü." Try a language I know. Please.

Nothing changed. Maybe it's the language of the man in the picture?

But that thought didn't help either. He might have been a Native American, but then her total vocabulary consisted of one word, pogamoggan. That's only because it once was a trivia question in a puzzle book. And I liked the sound.

Lacking any other ideas, she repeated the word in her thoughts. Pogamoggan. Pogamoggan. Pog—

Navuagantü, the voice interrupted with a definite negative tone.

An instant later, Daphne's entire body succumbed to sleep.

Chapter 3.

Daphne hadn't realized how foggy her mind had been until she awakened again and felt its new clarity. She couldn't move, but a shudder ran through her from toe to throat. Why?

The answer made her furious. I wasn't aware before of just how foggy I was, so how can I know now? If I lose my mind, I lose everything. Without my mind, I'm nothing.

Papa worries that twenty-six is almost too old to make babies, but I'm a baby myself when it comes to the investment world. My mind has made me rich beyond my age, but now someone has drugged my brain down to the IQ of a flea. Maybe killing me in the end? And wouldn't that be better than living as a vegetable?

She tried again to move any part of her body, but she couldn't even blink her eyelids. Calm down. You're not in any pain, so maybe it's not as bad as you think. How can you test your brain?

Carefully, she build a mental spreadsheet, filling one cell at a time with the prices of a recent week's worth of municipal bonds issued in the State of New York. She created a separate column for each purpose—road improvements, libraries, schools, airports, and so forth. With her eidetic memory supplying the numbers, she finished with a twenty-by-thirty-six layout.

With no pain, there was nothing to distract her as she added the columns, then cross-footed the rows and compared the grand totals to one another and the total she had memorized. Identical. Thank God! At least that part of my brain is working pretty well.

Her satisfaction was short-lived. What about other parts of my brain, like my ability to recognize faces and attach names to them? If I saw the people who are doing this to me, would I recognize them? There's no way I can test that here. I could be an idiot savant.

Contemplating this nightmare was more than she could cope with, so she let herself fall asleep again. When she awakened, two thoughts filled her mind: Who is doing this? Why?

Think! Are you really stupid, or just groggy? What do you know you can start with?

For obvious reasons, Cousin Russell topped the list of captor candidates. Then, maybe a client who suffered losses in the downturn?

She couldn't think of anyone else, but whomever it might be, she resolved to use every resource to find out. And when I do, I'll have my revenge—but at this moment, I can't even twitch my little finger.

Once again, she let her fingers and toes confirm that idea. What do I know? How long have I been drugged here, wherever here is? It won't take Russell very long to parlay my absence into a takeover of DeFreest and Son.

She shivered at the thought, which made her realize she didn't feel cold. Don't be stupid, girl. You haven't wet yourself, so you couldn't have been here even twenty-four hours. And you're not even hungry. If it's been more than eight hours without food, that would be a record for you.

She tried to sense either hunger or thirst. A few seconds later, a slightly viscous liquid wetted her mouth. As a first impulse, she tried spitting it out, thinking it must be drugged. When she couldn't even purse her lips, she paid attention to the taste. Can I somehow sense the drug?

She could, but it tasted like something besides medicine. It seemed to be a combination of two of her Baskin-Robbins favorites: pistachio-almond and banana-walnut. She shuddered, dread moving her body where resolution failed. I'm hallucinating, for sure. I've been here a long time, and I'm starving to death.

Not only were the flavors perfect, but she could almost feel nourishment permeating her body. If it's a terminal delirium, it's certainly a good one. What's happening to me?

As if in answer to her question, the voice in her head said, Navuagantü.

That's the same word I heard before. Can it really be an answer?

Hü'ü, came the immediate reply.

Does that mean yes? It sounds affirmative, but that's no help. Still, at least it's an answer. But I'm definitely hallucinating. But it's sure not English.

She puzzled over the word. Navuagantü? I think that's it, but what does he mean?

She quickly noticed her switch to assuming it was a man, a male, who controlled her. Okay, he seems to be able to read questions from my mind. Well, some questions, at least. How can I make it into a question?

She repeated the word in her mind, trying to feel puzzled—not difficult, under the circumstances. The picture of the aspen forest formed again in her mind. As before, the leaves were quaking, but then she saw another movement. A squirrel running along a branch leaped for another branch, caught it, then fell when the branch broke. The picture followed the unfortunate animal to the ground, where it lay twitching.

Daphne had seen a cat twitch like that after being hit by a car. Like that cat, this poor squirrel must have broken its spine. She felt helpless. It's going to die a slow, painful death. If I can't help, why do I have to witness this? What does he want me to learn? Don't climb trees?

She struggled to banish the picture from her mind. It wouldn't go away. After a short while, something else moved. To her horror, a coyote—or wolf, could she tell the difference?—approached the hapless squirrel. At least it won't suffer so long, she consoled herself. But instead of tearing into its lucky meal, the coyote ignored it and began to dig at the base of one of the larger aspens.

When the hole looked big enough, the coyote picked up the injured animal and carried it like a puppy, setting it gently in the hole. Oh Jesus. It's going to bury it alive, for later, like a dog buries a bone.

But the coyote simply walked away, leaving the squirrel unburied. The picture seemed to zoom in on the trembling little creature, but nothing else happened for a while. She dozed off, awakening to notice white spots appearing in the loosened dirt around the squirrel, spots that quickly grew into tendrils wrapping the animal's body like a cocoon.

The cocoon complete, the trembling stopped. Something under the ground is digesting him alive. That's what spiders do.

Daphne thought she ought to retch, but she could taste only delicious pistachio-almond and banana-walnut. She wanted to avert her eyes, but the picture stuck inside her head, so she just watched the lifeless cocoon. Once in a while, a yellow leaf fluttered down from above, but nothing else happened until the cocoon started to stretch as if something were trying to break out. I don't want to see this monster spider. Please, please, turn off the picture.

Nothing changed. She remained utterly powerless. She dozed again, awakening abruptly to watch as something grayish emerged from the white wrappings. First one leg, then another. Ick!

While she tried to estimate the size of the spider from those legs, the cocoon ruptured and something large burst out. She expected to see a giant arachnid, but it was only a normal-sized squirrel, swiveling its head for a moment to take in its surroundings, then quickly running up the tree trunk while the voice in her head repeated, Navuagantü.

Chapter 4.

Daphne understood. She thought the word, Hü'ü, but the picture remained, moving through the forest until it stopped, showing a deep ravine. And, approaching that ravine, a figure. Not a precise rendering like the squirrel or the coyote, but a caricature of a human being. Oh my God! It's me!

Her avatar wore her Abercrombie and Fitch khaki chinos tucked into her Dunham boots. It even wore her red-checked, long-sleeve Pendleton shirt.

And, it was heading frantically for the ravine.

Despite Daphne's involuntary mental warnings, her avatar headed for a fall. Like the squirrel.

Daphne looked on in horror as the picture followed her alter ego until it fell. She followed her body as it bounced down a dark, rocky crevice, stopping abruptly as it smashed into the rocks at the bottom. There it lay twitching. Like the squirrel.

The twitching was unbearable, but she couldn't shut off the picture. A coyote appeared. Then a second. No matter how many coyotes, there's no way they could dig through these rocks to bury her, the way they buried the squirrel.

The coyotes seemed aware of the situation, leaving her body and climbing off the rocks to a grassy shelf about a quarter of the way up the gentler side of the ravine. There, between two of the largest aspens she had ever seen, they began to dig.

The picture moved away from the diggings, back to her injured avatar. She could see it now in more detail. Her right arm looked as if it had a second elbow, halfway down her forearm. Her right leg wasn't bent unnaturally, but a jagged end of tibia stuck out though a tear in her red-soaked chinos.

A surge of nausea rose from her belly. Oh God, what happens if I throw up on this intensive care outfit. I'll drown in my own vomit.

A moment later, her mouth felt wet with familiar ice cream flavors. They seemed to banish the incipient nausea. She felt normal again. I should study my wounds more carefully. Oh, it seems I now think of them as my wounds.

Before she could explore that thought, the picture showed a huge bear, black and shaggy, hovering over her body. If she hadn't seen what happened to the squirrel, she would have died of fright right then. As it was, she watched, powerless, as the bear pick up her alter-body. I'm going to faint.

No such relief. Instead, she was forced to watch—first frightened, then fascinated—as the bear scrambled up to the shelf where the coyotes had finished digging a Daphne-sized hole. The bear laid her down like a mother placing a sick newborn in a crib, then watched and sniffed as the white tendrils emerged from the ground and began their cocooning.

When the cocooning was complete, the picture froze, and the voice said, Navuagantü? It somehow sounded like a question..

Hü'ü, she answered. The word rose spontaneously into her thoughts, along with its meaning: Yes, I understand. Then she remembered the picture of her body, and the panic took over.

She hadn't registered it before, but she now saw that her broken arm and leg were not the only problems. Nor even the primary problems. The way her body had been twisted, her spine must be broken. No wonder I can't feel my limbs.

Navuagantü might mean healing, or medicine, or something like that. But no matter who my mysterious doctor might be, there's no way he can heal a broken back.

Chapter 5.

Depression had never been part of Daphne's emotional vocabulary—up until now. The gray hopelessness would have immobilized her, were she not already as immobile as a human being could possibly be. About the only expression open to her seemed to be weeping—only to have her tears sucked dry as soon as they were produced.

Once the crying started, she noticed that her melted ice cream now had a slightly salty taste. My captor must be replacing the salt in my tears. So, he's doing his best to keep me alive and healthy. Why bother?

But bother he did. Not just alive and healthy, but evidently happy as well, for he kept switching flavors in her nutrient. First pistachio, then pistachio-almond. Coconut. Cherry. All of her favorites—interesting, but not enough to banish her melancholy.

Still, the variety of flavors gave her something to think about. He seems to know what I like. And does he know I don't like chocolate, or is he just unable to make it?

Who could have told him my favorites? Who even knows?