He was going to buy us adaptations: wings and goggled eyes, skin suits, new tridents for hooking Seths. The crocs in the Carolinas could be shipped to us by Christmas. Soon the indigenous Bigtrees would be able to compete with our niche competitor, that exotic invasive species of business, the World of Darkness. I mentioned that he might run into Kiwi on the streets of downtown Loomis, and he looked up at me through a fog. “What’s that now, Ava?” he bellowed across the carpet. Steam came dreaming up from the little ark of the iron. “Who?”
