“You like everything.”

“I certainly do not.”

He began at the beginning and played it through, with an exaggerated wristy flourish on the last little glissando. It was short. He played it through again. “See? Juvenile. Cheap thrills.”

“Strange, how potent cheap music is,” Rebecca said mockingly. She was rummaging through the old folders on George’s desk. She read aloud from a sheet of graph paper on which George had long ago scribbled, “Polypeptide bonds of Dicksonia culcita, each frond of which naturally forms an individual Sierpinski’s triangle, but as a plant, the entire structure of fronds forms a larger Sierpinski’s triangle consisting of smaller Sierpinski’s triangles.”

“Oh, I’m glad you found that. I need that. Don’t put that back in the folder, leave it out.”

“George, honey, that’s not a sentence in English. You realize that?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s really intriguing to me.”

“Because?”

“Because of what you just read. Because of the way nature does that.”

“I thought that was why you liked the Fibonacci sequence, because of what nature did. Wasn’t that the one with all the spirals and whirls and pinecones and seashells and perfect ratios and whatever?”

“Yeah, it is, but it’s too obvious. And I kind of want to stay away from Fibonacci sequences because everyone who is anyone is writing a Fibonacci novel, or opening a Fibonacci restaurant, or laying a Fibonacci sidewalk, or weaving a sweat lodge from recycled industrial waste in a Fibonacci form, even as we speak. And bad music it is, even with all the pinecones and seashells and circles of Willis for decoration. Anyway, it ain’t got nothin’ on these amazing ferns. I got big plans for these ferns. They inspire me.”

“Fern music?”

“That’s it. Perfect for fern bars. I could make a career.” He tapped the imaginary ash off the imaginary cigar that went with this huckster’s voice.

“Are there still fern bars? And what does the circle of Willis have to do with Fibonacci numbers?”

“Nothing at all. I just like saying the name, circle of Willis. I was testing to see if you understood what I was talking about.”

“That’s condescending.”

“Sorry. I was just using words. You know me, I’m a word magpie. Epexegesis. Loculus. Gallimaufry. How do you know about the circle of Willis?”

“You’re still being condescending. Patients with sickle-cell anemia can suffer arterial occlusive strokes, and the circle of Willis is often the site of the damage. You see it in the diagnostic Doppler.”

“Well, that’s a downer.”

“You’re not kidding. It’s really a downer. The average age for these patients is five.”

“Five what?” George was now scowling at the manuscript in front of him. “Hm?”

“These are children, George, they’re very sick five-year-olds. Now you’re not listening to me.”

“Sorry.” He put down his pencil and turned back her way. “You do have a pretty horrible job, don’t you?”

“I have to admit I am not missing it so much.”

“You don’t have to go back to it, you know.”