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Meliora, hold bits of truth. It is not an easy thing to gather in one place, truth. Devious. Slippery."
    He sucked on another chocolate piece, sprinkling saliva on his shirt. No serving device came to clean him up. Such a large home and so—empty. He remained silent, and she didn't dare to touch him or ask another question. He seemed as if he'd break if she did. She didn't dare to move from her seat at all.
    "Two years from now you will be asked to go to a doctor for everyone's once-in-a-lifetime special doctor's examination and treatment," he said after many minutes had passed. It seemed like he found it hard to speak, like people coming out of the wonderful experiences.
    "After this has passed, Meliora girl—unless you refuse it, like I did—your body will no longer seem to age. You will remain young and beautiful. And then, seventeen years from that date, give or take a few, young and beautiful, you will die."
    He started coughing. She didn't dare to touch him, to give him juice or water. Besides, for some reason, right now she didn't dare trust her own hands.
    "It is not a city, is it, Granddad Nicolas? Death." Her voice was but a whisper.
    "The gods only know what it is, child. I'll know it soon enough. But I hope you won't know it for a long time yet."
    "No," she said quietly. "I hope I will. It seems that I don't know nearly enough, about anything."
    The man shrugged. His shoulders creaked, and he started coughing again.
    "Listen, girl," he said after the coughing had passed. His voice was weaker now, he was breathing heavily. "This boy you have seen, my great-grandson, he left something. Computer things. I don't know what they are... Computers, damn them to the seven hells, are the reason for this blasted world! Machines—cold, emotionless, oh-so-wise machines—they brought us to this! I wouldn't have any of it. I would have had my wife give birth properly, too, but she wouldn't have any of that. She's been gone for twenty-eight years now, young and beautiful as any of them... Ah... Perhaps I'll see her again. The gods will let me. But will she know me in this withered shell..."
    "Of course she will." Meliora was crying, without even knowing why. "Of course she will!"
    "Ah, you're a kind child. Not just polite. Kind. Take the computer stuff. I hate to give it to you, for I think that it is more likely to bring you harm than good, but that boy left it for someone to find. Someone who'd know what to do with it."
    "Where is he, Granddad Nicolas?"
    "I don't know, child. Find him if you can."
    "But where shall I start searching, Granddad Nicolas? Please tell me!"
    Please tell me! You must know! You have been here for so long, you know so much! I want to ask you so much! She didn't dare. He looked so tired, so very tired, almost asleep. She didn't believe, somehow she didn't believe, that he could say a word ever again.
    "He mentioned something called The City of Life, " Granddad Nicolas whispered, barely. Then, "Good bye, Meliora-child."
    He fell asleep and wouldn't wake up. For many hours, she just sat there and cried. Then she got up and found and took the only computer in the house. Through her own computer she messaged her frantic mom, then messaged the Annabellan doctor she'd met on the train. A doctor must know what to do with someone who had left for the City of Death.

Doctors
    A woman and a man she didn't know took her back to Lucasta. The doctor from the train had sent them to her, they said. They also said that she'd been through an ordeal that no one should have to experience—that no, it wasn't like a wonderful experience in the mall. It was, and it wasn't. They said she needed their help.
    She told them that she needed answers. They wouldn't give any.
    "The doctors in Lucasta will talk to you."
    She refused to take their pills. She didn't trust them—and it was sad, so sad to not be able to trust your new friends. Mom trusted people, at least most of the time. People trusted people—and people were