Eight days in.
Manager Marjolaine: . . . and half a bar for Annie, and half a bar for Gil.
Gil: I don’t think I can eat it, Manager . . . I think I am going to throw up if I try.
Manager: . . . I see. Go lie down for a while, Pickman Gil. We won’t let anyone else eat your lunch in the meantime.
Gil: Oh, you do not have to save —
Manager: Yes. Yes, we do.
Hey, Bram . . . you’ve been a whiz with physical healing spells. How good are you with the mental ones? Pickman Gil’s anxiety is getting to him — more than usual, I mean.
Bram: Uh . . . that kind of magic was never my specialty . . .
Manager: Can you fake it?
Bram: AH! Why didn’t you just SAY SO.