26″Melda is picking flowers, when she hears a rustle of wind pass through blades of grass over the green glade and over the hill. "It might be a cool night, I'd better pick some of these orange pointy things I grew from the dirt." She speaks to herself, or no one. Luckily, Melda is good at reading the weather, though adventure is far from her thoughts. "I'll make a soup over a warm fire" she says aloud.
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