Benji,
It sucks in here, but that’s on purpose, so joke’s on me. I’m getting lots of letters. People are so amped! I can’t believe it, ███████████████. It’s like on one side of it, I’m so broken that this is going down as attempted murder, and I’ll probably lose any appeals on account of the █████ man, but on the other hand people are paying attention. This lady from Wild Earth Magazine wrote to me. I think she’s coming to visit soon. Can you believe it? It helps, you know? Thinking that at least something is happening, and people are waking up, even if it means I have to waste away in the slammer. Anyway, the lawyers are already working on appeals, so I still have hope that I can get out of here before I die. I miss everyone at the shop. I miss just seeing everyone about to have their normal day and making them the same drinks over and over. Even the sad people, like that lady Julia who comes in with her cute kids and just stares out the window while they play. Anyway, I guess you’re getting to know all of them now. I’m glad for you. Anyway, that’s enough of my ███. I love you too. Write me back. I know you will. Love Maya
Benji folds the letter for the seventh time and puts it back into his portfolio. Maya’s letters, mixed in with the paperwork of his investment clients. How fitting. Fitting to the confusion of his life right now. The morning is already hot and still, and his glasses slide down his nose as he reads and re-reads the note. Reading her words leaves him with the strangest feeling. Deep love for her, love that he hadn’t been able to feel or express for so long, and also…what is it? Fear? Is Maya delusional? What does she actually think is going to happen? And does she really think she’s coming home? Either way, he just feels sad. Sad and lonely and angry. Confused.
He stubs out his cigarette, and waves to Mason, driving past on his morning errand. Without thinking, he puts the cigarette butt and the letter into his portfolio and pushes his way back into the shop.
∞
Within the elaborate shells of giant living hemlocks pulses a rushing vascular thoroughfare. The trees grow with incredible patience, but signaling from root to branch tip is lightning fast. Dye that has entered a tree’s system can filter down to the finest of root hairs in less than five minutes, evidence of the tree’s busy internal circuitry. And this, this nervousness and rushing up of the nutrients the soil provides, and the scampering intelligent redistribution of those nutrients to every growing cell, is what allows the chemical pesticide imidacloprid to deliver a lethal gulp of sap to the woolly adelgid pest.
When imidacloprid entered Tom Hanford’s body, the effect was similar. The poison radiated throughout his system within minutes. At first, he was unaware of it, and then he thought he had a bad case of the stomach bug. But the effect the poison had on his body was more than even an educated toxicologist would have expected. What Maya didn’t know, and couldn’t have known, was that a heavy dose of imidacloprid, coupled with Tom’s daily medication, would render his liver incapable of dismantling the poison in his body. When his daughter Katie found him, he was staggering from his office, agitated, sweating, and incoherent. Flying toward his flailing body, she felt his heartbeat as if the muscle existed on the outside of his sturdy frame. She made two phone calls. 9-1-1, and Uncle Harris.
∞