“Does that make you the tree world’s Florence Nightingale, or its Frankenstein?”

“Florence, I hope. The graft union is actually stronger than the rest of the tree, and the scion usually grows faster and lusher than the understock’s own branches. But maybe there’s a little Frankenstein in me too. I’ve got what you might call a ‘lymon’ tree over there: I grafted a branch from a sickly lime tree onto a healthy lemon tree. In a few years it’ll yield lemons and limes.”

“Sure,” Jack said. “And what are you asking for that nice bridge to Brooklyn?”

“No, it’s true. You can cross-graft the same species, but you can’t cross genera.”

“You’re losing me.”

“Lemons, limes, grapefruit are all in the citrus group—one will usually accept another of the same species. But that lime scion wouldn’t have taken if I’d grafted it to, say, apple or pear understock.”

Jack walked around the room, checking out the recovering plants.

“So… you take two trees and make them into one.”

“It’s a strange sort of math,” Alicia said. “As one of my grafting books put it: One plus one equals one. And the nice thing is, there’s no loser. The understock’s roots are getting fed by the scion’s leaves.”

“I bet you wish you could do that with people.”

When Alicia didn’t answer, Jack turned and found her standing rigid in the center of the room, staring at him. Her face was pale, and her voice sounded strained when she finally spoke.

“What did you say?”

“I said it would be great if it were that easy with people. You know, cut them loose from their crummy roots and let them grow free and uncontaminated by their past.”

She seemed even paler.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said, but Jack couldn’t believe it. “I just want to know why you said that.”

“Well, I was thinking of your AIDS kids. I mean, they inherited their sickness from their roots… too bad you can’t find a way to graft them onto healthy stock that’ll allow them to grow up disease free.”

“Oh.” She visibly relaxed. “You know, I never thought of that. But it’s a wonderful thought, isn’t it.”

She still seemed troubled, though, as if she’d taken a step back into another dimension, and only appeared to be in the room. Jack wondered what nerve he’d touched, what region of her psyche it sprang from, and where it led.

“If only it were possible,” she said softly from that other place.

“Speaking of those kids,” Jack said, “how’s my man, Hector?”

And then abruptly, she was back. “Coming along,” she said. “The antibiotic seems to be doing the trick.” She clapped her hands once. “Now… I guess we have business to discuss.”

“Uh, yes… and no,” Jack said.

“Oh, I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

Might as well get it out on the table: “I checked out your father’s house yesterday, and I think if you really want to get rid of it, you’ve got to find some way other than fire.”