“The ceylon orchid is very responsive to changes in humidity,” says Syracuse, indicating a ragged little purple thing, “and the pendula there will indicate if the temperature goes above sixty-eight degrees. Stelitzia for raised voices, amaryllis for electromagnetic fields, and this little Ecuadorian will know if any of the other flowers move more than an inch from their relative positions.”

“This is so much trouble,” says Naff. “I could get you a digital security system for—”

“The digital can be hacked. Subverted. Disabled. Trust the analog.”

“How do they tell you when things change, anyway?”

She studies him. “They die.”

Bucket peels off the wrapper and stares, because there it is: an impossible little gold rectangle, the telephone that will soon ring with a phone call from the Wozka himself.

“You gonna do it?” says the neighbor kid, awed. “You gonna go inside that crazy magic building and learn all his secrets?”

“Hell no, my family’s broke and this is our ticket out!” says Bucket. “I’m gonna sell it. I’m gonna sell it on eBay!”

They get an oversized McMansion and spend too much money on cars, but some of it goes into a trust for the kids, so that’s good.

Rudith, as the beast with nine hundred names is currently known, eyes the biped and his awkward morning calisthenics with disdain. She had hoped, when he came to live here, that he might prove a hunt-leader or at least interesting prey, but THING OUT THE WINDOW THERE WAS A THING A THING MOVED. Rudith presses nose to cold glass, waiting, breathing, but the yard is still and at length instinct subsides. The biped collapses halfway up a headstand. Rudith snorts, scorning him as he laughs at himself, and BELLY RUB RUBBING BELLY ROLL AROUND BELLY okay he lives another day.

The contract has become so complex that it now autonomously generates more contract, and the crisis-response antitorneys are fighting like a fever just to keep it in check. It’s getting faster, thornier, wilier, and starting to strike back. It’s already sued two firms out of existence.

“We think this is the heart,” says Tark, laser-pointing at a diagram, “the subrogation clause. Kill that and the rest follows.”

“I’m no lawyer,” growls Romesh. “Dammit, I drill oil wells!”

“That’s exactly why we need you,” says Tark, but a wild gag order hits him before he can halfway justify the plot.

Selma didn’t realize the collection bowl had reached her until a little too late and now she’s fumbling awkwardly, almost spilling it as she tries to get her stent open one-handed. This always happens. She finally gets her vein going and makes a fist, and gives a little more than she would have if she didn’t feel like everyone was staring.

The drops of purple turn to rich red as she passes it down the pew: transubstantiation, the everyday miracle. Selma waits for the dizziness to pass as, ahead of her, the front rows shuffle forward to taste God’s coin.