The base needed cleaning but she didn’t have time. Wretched little things. They would be better off outdoors on some bramble, even bramble on waste ground. She decided to call by the florist. “No reason why you phasmids should suffer just because I’m preoccupied,” she murmured. She stood and stamped her right foot into her shoe. They seemed to prefer the variegated ivy. She stamped into her left shoe. A pain pierced through her heel. A small foreign object gouging her skin forced her to stagger backwards. She sat on the edge of her bed, gripped the bedclothes, and ground her heel into her shoe. Her movements were slow and deliberate. Her eyes were brimful. Crying—an outward sign of sadness in born-humans, preceding any true feeling. She forced herself to conjure memories—of Dave holding her close, the screaming baby; thoughts already so close to the surface. She stamped her heel again, grinding, more pain and more reflexive tears; an excruciating concoction. The wetness in her eyes swelled, her nasal passages constricted, and she knew that if she blinked the tears would spill.
