“Hectic morning, you know how it is,” Chani said. She opened her pack of jars, pulled out a stack of pickled plums hiding drugs that kept Alzheimer’s at bay. Kayla’s face lit up with gratitude.
“I can help her patch it up. Me and your dad can plant 379 in two weekends if we’re serious.”
“Where are you getting all of those saplings?”
Lynn bolted down the driftwood steps to the garage. Her least favorite sister, Elspeth, was lying under her raised water-scooter, scraping mussels and barnacles from the panzer-glass hull.
The tundra-special foam fungus which had taken up most of it for this last crop rotation had grown into an extremely weird shape.
A chunk of something solid whipped out of the brown and black vortex and speared straight at the windshield. In the instant before contact, Javier saw that it was part of a tree.
He had a theory that mothskins could learn from the culatraciae: the way they lived over water, their willingness to build rafts (out of their own bodies!), their selfless respect for the greater good.