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Douglas Adams Was Right

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Gena rolls onto her side to give Elizabeth room, but on the one hospital bed it's cramped to say the least. Bandages encompass what remains of her left leg, the pain a constant seven regardless of the two doses of morphine she's already been injected with.

"Fucking dolphins are evil, Chickadee," Gena mutters, resting her head against Libby's shoulder. She's never going swimming in the ocean again, and if anyone cracks a joke about what she tastes like, she's throwing them overboard.

Gant just laughs. Mother's been listening to old cassette tapes of cheesy sci-fi novels for how long and she still hasn't figured that out? "Told you Adams was right."

"Fuckin' Hitchcock and those birds, Adams and the dolphins — next it'll be Asimov and his robots."

Nature has never agreed with Gena. That's not to say she hates it, but Nature is clearly holding a grudge because of some forgotten slight.

"Go back to sleep, Mother," Libby murmurs, slipping an arm around Newman's waist and resting her head against the crook of her neck. Mother's always been there for her, so now she's returning the gesture. "We'll come back another day and fight the dolphins for your leg, okay?"