He said it like a Victorian chaperone: visit with you, as if there were something dark and furtive about the act. Park said, “Tell him to go away.”

“He has something else for you,” Glenn said. “A gift.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Park told him. “He can give it to me tomorrow, if he wants. I don’t know why he had to come all the way here.” She could feel her face burning, and not from the fever—Glenn was regarding her with his patient, unreadable eyes. “Tell him to go away,” she said again. “I’m too sick. I’ll see him tomorrow—or the day after.”

“All right,” Glenn intoned, and he turned on his heel and slipped silently out of the room again. The door folded shut behind him with a clatter. Beyond, Park could hear him telling Dataran: “She would like for you to go away.”

Goddamn him, Park thought, with a surge of impatience. But it wasn’t Glenn’s fault. It wasn’t his responsibility to come up with more articulate excuses for her—and androids weren’t exactly overflowing with social graces, not unless they were trying extremely hard. Dataran said, in his good-natured way, “All right. Tell her I hope she feels better, would you?” But Glenn didn’t answer, must have simply shut the door; Park hoped that Dataran had walked away by that point and hadn’t had the door snapped shut in his face. That he wasn’t simply standing in the hallway, listening. Hoping that she might still come out.

Glenn returned, carrying a parcel made of wax paper.

“What is that?” Park asked.

Glenn handed her the little bundle without answering. Park put it tentatively in her lap and untwisted the wax paper, smoothing the edges out against her blanket. She blinked.

“These are cookies.” She hadn’t seen or eaten cookies since she was a small child; there was hardly any wheat left in this region, and anyway everyone was so preoccupied with using their resources to meet nutritional quotas that luxuries like cookies had largely been abandoned. Where had Dataran gotten them?

“Yes,” Glenn agreed, regarding them solemnly. “Cookies.” After a moment of processing, he added, “The custom of offering food to a victim of illness has great historical meaning. I believe it indicates well wishes. Nourishment for a speedy recovery.”

“Yes,” Park said. “But they’re hideous.” The cookies were huge, misshapen, each the size of a cow pat—and worse, they were a lurid pink. Was it some kind of joke?

“They’re not poisoned,” Glenn said, squinting as he flipped through different analysis lenses. “They’re mainly composed of acorn flour. And beets, for sugar. That’s where the color comes from. They’re safe to eat.”