Days settled into a harsh rhythm. Nick woke before dawn to the lean-to’s chill, forcing stiff muscles into motion to report to Joril, who was always already amongst his glowing plants. The work remained grueling: turning compost, hauling gut-mulch, clearing stones, patching fences. Nick’s hands grew calloused, blistered, then calloused again. He learned to work steadily, conserving energy under Joril’s watchful, critical eye, driven by the necessity of the two hide strips earned each evening – payment for stew and shelter.

  During breaks, Nick watched the plants. Their leaves pulsed with an eerie luminescence. The large, pale fruits hung heavy. Joril tended them meticulously, applying strange concoctions, pruning with care. Nick wondered about them but didn’t dare ask, sensing the farmer’s possessiveness.

  Evenings at 'The Grit Pot' were for stew and listening. He learned names, relationships, settlement politics – disputes over salvage, guard rotations, failing water filters. He heard of patrols lost, strange sicknesses from the ruins. Each scrap reinforced the community's fragility. He remained an outsider, ignored, but learning.

  His tasks expanded. One morning, Joril nodded towards a handcart. "Need gut-mulch. Butcher block." The 'butcher house' was a blood-stained patch of ground where kills were processed, thick with the stench of blood and viscera. Intestines and organs were dumped onto a festering pile. "Load the cart," Joril instructed. Nick scooped the decomposing mess, fighting nausea. They hauled the foul load back in silence.

  Another day: "Bone dust," Joril announced, handing Nick a sack. "Grinder's shop." In a noisy hut, a man operated a crude grinding machine. Piles of bones were fed in, emerging as powder or shaped into tools and arrowheads. Nothing wasted. Joril exchanged a strip for a sack of bone powder.

  Back at the farm, Joril began teaching Nick plant care, demonstrating how to mix bone powder, gut-mulch, and other substances into fertilizer. "Not too much," he cautioned, working it into the soil. "These ain't weeds. Need specific feed." He showed Nick how to check for pests, prune branches, test soil moisture. He demonstrated more than explained. Nick was learning the secrets of these valuable, unnatural plants, perhaps earning Joril's grudging trust.

  A few days later, Joril twisted a large, pale fruit from a bush. "Eat," he commanded. Nick hesitated – the glowing leaves, the strange fertilizer – but obeyed. The flesh was dense, creamy, sweet with a tart aftertaste. Filling. Joril handed him a waterskin. "Drink." The liquid was clear, viscous, tasteless. A profound weariness washed over Nick. Heavy. Sleepy. "Good," Joril grunted. "Go lie down." Nick stumbled to the lean-to, collapsing as darkness swallowed him.

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  Light filtered through gaps in the roof. Nick blinked awake, mouth dry. He sat up. The deep soreness was gone. He felt… lighter. Less burdened. Confused, he looked at his calloused hands. The underlying fragility had lessened. How long? He stood, looked out. Joril inspected his plants. The sun felt wrong.

  Joril looked over. "Awake then."

  "How long...?" Nick croaked.

  "Ten days," Joril stated flatly. "Slept like the dead." He peered at Nick. "The fruit… and the binder liquid… forces adjustment. Integration." He gestured vaguely. "Won't break so easy now. Less fragile."

  Nick stared. Ten days? Forced adjustment?

  Joril added, "Still weak, though. Weak compared to settlement-born . Maybe won't die tripping now." He turned back to his plants. "Get up. Work needs doing."

  Ten days gone. Changed. Less fragile, but weak. Nick stood reeling, trying to grasp the transformation.

  The next month passed. Sweat, stench, survival. Nick fell into the farm's rhythm. Every ten days, Joril provided the fruit and liquid. Each time, the deep sleep, waking marginally stronger, though the gap between him and the settlement-born remained vast.

  Joril imparted slivers of essential knowledge, blunt pronouncements delivered while working. "See that shimmer?" pointing to rusted metal. "Blue tint? Don't breathe near it if air's still. Lung rot." Or, indicating insects: "Bite don't hurt. Fever after. Stay clear near dusk." He showed Nick edible versus poisonous roots side-by-side. "This one, good. This one, you bloat up dead. Learn the difference." He explained bartering: "Always check weights. Act like you don't need it. They'd sell their mothers for an extra strip." Knowledge stripped bare, honed sharp by necessity.

  One evening at 'The Grit Pot', the talk was louder. Nick nursed his stew, listening.

  "...cleared the nest," a woman recounted, rubbing a bandaged arm. "Nasty biters. Lost Gren, but the green furballs are gone from the west fields."

  A scout reported quietly to the woman leader: "...confirmed. 'Glow Pods'. High energy. Sector's unstable." The leader's sharp reply: "First light team. Secure it. Quietly."

  A hunter boasted: "...bolt went right through its skull! Big chicken dropped like a bad habit!"

  Nick finished his stew. Furballs cleared, scouts lost securing Glow Pods, giant chickens hunted. Life and death tallied like a ledger. He stood up, feeling the evening chill and the weight of his own precarious place.