"You?"
"Sure," she says, and I honestly can't imagine what this perfectly balanced person could possibly have to resolve. "You first," she says.
"Gonna get my knee fixed up."
"That's *it*?"
"Yuh-huh. The rest, I'll play by ear. Maybe I'll find some Process-heads to hit.
Howbout you?"
"Get the plumbing upstairs working again. Foam the whole place. Cook one meal a week. Start teaching self-defense. Make sure your knee gets fixed up." And suddenly, she seems like she's real *old*, even though she's only twenty-five, only three years older than me.
"Oh, yeah. That's real good."
"Got any *other* plans for the next year, Maxes?"
"No, nothing special." I feel a twinge of freeloader's anxiety. "Maybe try and get some money, help out around here. I don't know."
"You don't have to worry about that. Tony may run this place, but I'm the one who found it, and I say you can stay. I just don't want to see you," she swallows, "you know, waste your life."