In Hawaii a whole garden of infected flowers grew near the mouth of a river.

The river led to the Pacific Ocean through the middle of one of the smaller islands where the flowers used the sun to feed their blue, arctic petals.

The flowers had adapted to the climate, and they knew how to handle the warm, impotent winters.

Joel and his friends and family were walking past the garden on their way to a cruise ship with a swimming pool in it.

He saw the flowers and got curious.

Joel picked one of the flowers, smelled it and put it in his pocket.

A week later, he and his friends and family were in Antarctica, freezing to death or dead and in each other’s bellies, and then all in Joel’s belly.

But as Joel lay there starving, before Luke and everyone else on ergot dropped their piano from a helicopter, Joel’s hands were in his pockets, one of them fondling the flower, thinking of warmer, happier times.

It was so cold Joel couldn’t feel how numb his hand was getting from touching the flower and its petals, and his hand was getting bluer and bluer there in the darkness of his pocket.



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