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sense.  
    I shake my head and lift my arm, waving back at my father, before I pass through the garden gate and make my way uphill.
    My brain feels oddly empty and full at the same time. Stuff races through my head, banging against my skull bones. Nothing is in order, nothing is clear. My feet are heavy, knowing full well that once I’m up there, reality will show one of its ugly faces.
    The man is waiting atop the turbine housing. His stance is casual. Dark clouds are gathering behind his back. ‘We cannot stay long,’ I call. ‘A storm is brewing.’ He probably didn’t hear me, because he doesn’t even turn his head to see who’s stomping up the hill.
    ‘Hi,’ I say once I reach him. The bandage around his head is gone. A massive welt shows above his right eyebrow. Beneath, his irises are of such a dark brown, they are very close to black. I consider apologising for the assault, but decide against it. I’m not sorry.
    ‘I came because of the storm,’ he says. ‘How’s the wrench, Micka?’
    I open my mouth and shut it, my eyes searching for something to say, something to change the topic. They find a silvery box in his hand. I read the label on the top right corner. MIT FireScope GenomeID. It’s the same the old Sequencer had.
    He sees my gaze resting on the thing, and says, ‘The weather is growing worse. We need to reach the other side of the reservoir in fifteen minutes.’
    I get the feeling that he thinks faster than he talks. And off he strides, covering more ground with his long legs than I with my shorter ones. I have to run a little to keep up.
    We reach the other side quickly, and he sets his machine on the ground. A capillary is extracted from a hatch on the back, extended to the reservoir’s edge, buttons are pushed, and water is sucked through the opaque tube into the machine.
    ‘It identifies microorganisms,’ he begins. ‘It’s impossible to analyse the hundreds of substances potentially contaminating soil and water. Not without a whole park of HPLCs, FPLCs, GCs, MALDI-TOF-MSs, spectrometers, fluorometers, and a wet-lab.’
    I don’t have the faintest what he’s talking about.
    ‘Hence, we are using a single, but not much less complicated device,’ he continues. ‘It allows us to identify all microbes in a sample. Microbes can adapt to their environment within minutes, and they show us what their environment is made of. Some of them are indicators of harmful substances, some are harmful themselves. Do you know where your drinking water comes from?’
    I nod. Of course I know. Everyone does. It comes from a well that takes groundwater from a few metres below. ‘But why do you test the reservoir?’ I ask.
    ‘Because rainwater flows through the topsoil into deeper soil layers. When it reaches geological formations that make it flow horizontally, then it’s called groundwater and the geological formations are called aquifers. Your reservoir constantly exchanges water with surrounding aquifers. Rainwater and meltwater also flow along the surface into the reservoir. Rivers, streams, and the like. The hills surrounding the reservoir, feeding water into it, are called the catchment area. If the soil or any waterbody in the catchment area has a problem, the reservoir water will acquire the same problem, and soon this problem will show in the aquifer below and, hence, in the water you pump from the valley’s wells to drink, wash, and cook.’
    My head spins. ‘Did you test the well water already?’ But all I really want to ask is, ‘You are a real Sequencer, aren’t you?’
    ‘Yes, last night.’
    ‘Is it okay?’
    ‘Patience, Micka. My analysis is not complete.’
    The machine is dead quiet and I begin to wonder if it’s broken.
    ‘We can leave,’ he says and rolls the tube back into the hatch. The machine produces small grating sounds. ‘What you hear is the self-cleansing mechanism. It wouldn’t help if I identified microbes growing in the capillary or the machine.