’ ‘I hope to finish next week. If we pick 3, maybe 4 days. Then, its over!’ ‘How are they?’ ‘Should be as close to perfect as they can be....It’s been dry enough since the end of the summer. And, no real cold spell.’ ‘Good deal. Is my friend Brandon about?’ ‘I haven’t seen him. You might check the stock room. Any word on Jack?’ Jack Formby had become ill during the last week. He had stayed in his house, essentially bedridden, which was unusual during the picking season. He usually came by most. It was a very tough part of the body, he was in no danger of injuring her, doubly so due to her Borealan resilience.“How does that feel?” he asked, watching her clawed toes flex rhythmically.“Like you’re reaching inside me and scratching an itch,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by the cushions. “It hurts a little ... but it’s good...”There was that sweet ache that was so often associated with this kind of massage, a permeating, dull pain that tapered into a deeply satisfying soreness that few. More

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