“You’re half-starved, you poor thing,” soothes Troy.
The mass of protoplasm shivers.
“They kept us apart for so long,” he says, “and they wouldn’t listen when I told them what to feed you. I’m sorry. I’d understand if you didn’t want to follow me anywhere again.”
Tentative pseudopods pulse questingly toward him.
“But I lied and I pretended and I got back in here, baby. And I’m not coming out alone.”
The blob surges forward, lumpy and asymmetrical, but rippling with hunger and life.
“Good girl,” says Troy, “eat up,” and tosses it a jelly bean that tastes like revenge.