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My archnemesis: curiosity.
I needed a book specific to people with chronic, life-threatening inquisitiveness.
“He protects me in exchange for baked goods. That’s … that’s the whole contract.”
“Mercy is for the weak, payilas.” “The weak can’t afford mercy.” I met his eyes. “I think we can.”
“In my world,” he said unexpectedly, “there is a type of … tree.” I faced him again, my brow furrowed in puzzlement. “On the tree, it grows small …” He cupped his hands as though holding something. “… small fruits. The outside is poisonous, deadly, but inside is juicy and sweet. We fight over these trees. I have killed to take the fruit when it is ripe.” He picked up another s’more cookie. “These are better.”
He thought my cookies were better than a fruit he’d killed to eat. My hands, submerged in soapy water, paused. I’d have to make sure no one ever tried to take food from him. It sounded dangerous.

