The hood over his head was making him hot and uncomfortable, she knew. But it was necessary, at all times. For the entire trip back to the spot where she encountered him, the hood stayed on him, only pulled up so far as the nose so that he could drink or eat. His bones were mended, for the most part, and he was, as ever, tightly bound. His covered body groaned slightly with the bumps of the cart, which was essentially just a gutted truck with the top of the cab and the front engine portion removed.

It had been an interesting two weeks. She kept the man blindfolded and tied, and did not speak a word to him but to explain his injuries. Texts in the computer archive of the plant complex served to entertain her while she waited out his recuperation.

Finally, it came time to end this mission of hers, and she was eager to be rid of the man.

She sang to herself, to calm herself and also possibly the man, but otherwise said nothing. When she reached the rocky hills where she found him, she lifted him as best she could and dragged him from the cart onto the sand. Sweaty, tired, she took the backpack she'd fixed for him and dropped it a few feet to his left, with a large tank of water and two canteens.

Stooping by the toma to catch her breath, she paused in thought. A tomas licked her cheek with its long, thin tongue. "Cut it out," she mumbled, pulling her hair back into place. She looked at the figure against a rock and his little pile of provisions. It was a sad situation, and she pitied him, but she also felt some anger at his attack. She approached him.

"Nod if you understand me."

He nodded.

"Listen, I don't care who you are, and I don't care for you to know who I am. Let's just act like we never met, and you go about your business. I'm leaving you with goods enough to last you a trip back to wherever you're from, and that's the best I'm going to do. It wouldn't be so bad to see you rot and die, so consider yourself pretty lucky that you have what I'm giving you." She untied his splinted leg from his good leg and unwrapped the cords from his thighs and shoulders. Eying the rock behind him, she considered the promise she'd made to Knives. Instead, she removed all of his bindings but the one at his wrists, and tugged the ropes a little for effect. "I'm tying you to this rock, and I plan to be history by the time you get loose." If he thought he was tied to the rock, that was good enough, she didn't have to tie him to it, really, she decided.

Vanessa made her way back to the cart, and check the reins. Oh, she'd forgotten to close up the back of the cart.

With a slam, it was done, and she walked to step up into her seat.

With a thud, she fell, unconscious, back onto the sand.

O

O

Crouched in a blanket atop his shack, Knives stared out into the clear, starry night, sipping warm cider and worrying entirely too much.

A trip to the December plant complex was scheduled for the sixteenth day after he'd left Vanessa, and though Knives wanted to stay at the garden to await her arrival, he owed it to the plants – and maybe, also, to Vanessa – to go about as usual. The cart was ready, and he'd leave at first dawn.

Palming the jug with both hands, he gazed out over his moonlit garden. It was an expansive complex, iles long and iles wide. There was too much plant life to tend to, so he'd allowed the great majority of the garden to grow unchecked, with automatic watering from the underground lake (plant-created, of course). A large section to the upper right was devoted to a covered, wet forest that had constant watering. To the lower right, a much larger, less exotic forest that was set up for weekly watering. The furthest chambers he tended to were the delicate plant areas. Beyond were huge chambers where many sort of tree, vine, insect, cat, whatever, were allowed to thrive unchecked. These, and the vast fields at left for a hundred species of crops, were protected at the sides by a metal and plastic barrier, from the sand and wind. This valley was as large as an Earth continent, but still he called it a valley, his valley. The valley housed his massive garden. Every six years he added an extra ile or two of chambers onto the three sides, and seeded for more fields, forests, and the like.

Knives felt a stir in his lap, and brought his hands into the blankets to touch the kittens. He ran his fingertips carefully along little heads and legs and bellies, and the mound of creatures grew still once more, slumbering in the warmth.

The first time he came to her with a blanket full of mewing bodies, her eyes had flown wide and she seemed shocked. He'd sat her down in the garden and explained how to handle them, in case she didn't know. She'd had the most bizarre expression on her face. That was the day after her arrival. The kittens seemed too much for her.

Knives was getting tired and chilled. He gathered the bundle of nineteen kittens into their blanket and held them carefully in his arm, cider jug in the other, as he hopped off of the roof into the sand. The kittens were taken back to one of the barns, and Knives curled up, alone, in his bed, attempting to calculate the probability of her return for the coming days.