1 I.

She came up through the mud, first by her fingertips.

And then two thin, dark arms—arched and shaking—pushed against the ground to unearth the rest. It didn't take her long to find use in her legs; the rain peeled away what grime covered her face.

We call them Bloomers, these dirt people. They shoot up like weeds and have for a while now. My friend Tim blames the greenhouse attendants. I'm starting to wonder if it has anything to do with those rumored plans of filling in the pond.

Whatever the reason, they've never lasted long up here. It's rare to see one surface, much less do so alive. Most are found dead—or "wilted," I guess you could say.

She lumbered towards me with the horror and gravitas of a wounded foal, and I stared, possessed by a spirit of awful pity. All I had wanted was to burn time between classes, not discover a muck monster from some nightmarish lagoon.

With every step, her movements improved—and you could see, with a piercing certainty, a growing sense of awareness in her features.

"Want a tic-tac?" I asked.

She looked at me.

It was a perfectly valid question—who wouldn't, after emerging from the bowels of who-the-hell-knows-what-kind-of morass, want to feel the least bit refreshed? I decided to try again.

"Are you all right?"

I offered my jacket, and she took it. Part of me was grateful for wearing my least favorite this evening, as it would surely be ruined by whatever alien soil she crawled out from—the image of which still clear in my mind. She had moved like a spider struggling through a raindrop.

We continued to talk. It didn't take long for me to exhaust my usefulness, nor for her to adapt to my use of language, and yet still fall short of effective communication. She understood unusually complicated things, but failed to grasp the concepts of need or identity. My limited knowledge of bloomers forewarned that her time here would be brief if preventative measures were not taken—and, as it turned out, I had grown fond of my discovery, and preferred if at all possible she not wilt under my care. Far too many orchids before her succumbed to such a fate. That fact made me terribly nervous.

"Let's go to the library," I said. "There must be something on the shelves that would help—I mean, what if you can't eat chocolate?"

She followed me towards the campus library, and we cautiously approached the stairs.

"I mean I'm not allowed to give my dog chocolate," I continued. "I know a girl who can't even eat bread, or cheese, or citrus…or nuts."

Despite my usual avoidance of the library and its musky catacombs of overburdened minds, it was the only sensible place to turn to. Surely, some research of this phenomenon had been documented.

"You'll be fine," I said.

A silent dread trailed muddily behind: what if the book was checked out?