"Mel."
"—drop to a single day if the base concentration is—"
"Mel."
"What?"
"Breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm also realizing that everything I've been doing could've been twice as effective if I'd known about a field that was right there this whole time, which is not your fault, I know it's not your fault, but I might need a minute to be frustrated about it anyway."
"Take your time."
"Thank you." She picks a flower. Drops it. Picks another. "Okay. I'm done being frustrated."
"That was fast."
"Yeah well, being frustrated doesn't get flowers picked." She turns back to the basket. "Will you take me there?"
"To the field?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Next day. As soon as the paste from today's batch is steeping."
I pick flowers. Steady. Matching her rhythm.
"I'll take you."
Her face changes. Soft. Open. The constant motion stalls and she goes quiet.
I want to touch her face.
I watch the flowers instead.
"Thank you."
My hands pause on a stem. "For what?"
"For telling me. About the field. That's—" She stops. Starts again. "That's really useful."
"You're welcome."
Stiff.
"You don't say that very often, do you?"
"Say what?"
"You're welcome."
"People don't usually thank me."
"People should thank you more."
No answer. Reach for another one. But my shoulder presses against hers. Don't pull away.
