Ivy

Foundation

I was normally one to sleep through the night, unconcerned in Morpheus’ grasp, but this time I didn’t.

The initial why wasn’t apparent to me, just that I woke and it was still dark and in the nighttime discombobulation the pieces didn’t fall into place right away. Just the feeling that things were wrong—no, not wrong, but different.

My alarm clock at home was annoyingly bright. On the rare occasions I did wake up in the middle of the night, I considered replacing it, and forgot about it by the morning. But it was gone . . . this wasn’t my bed, and I was hotter than usual for the middle of the night.

It took me longer than it should have to remember that I wasn't home, that I was somewhere up north, and that I was in bed with Ivy.

Except that I wasn’t; she wasn’t there. Could that have been what had woken me?

It must have been, that must have been what woke me. I sat up in bed, as if that would give me a clue where she’d gone. She wasn’t in the loft and I didn’t hear her hooves downstairs; she’d probably gone to the outhouse, unless there was something that needed to be done in the cabin in the middle of the night.

Surely not in the summertime, but I could imagine in the winter having to wake up and climb down the ladder to put more wood in the fire—did she set an alarm for that, or did she just know?

I heard the door of the cabin open then close, and I heard her hooves downstairs as she crossed the wood floor. I laid back down in bed and pulled the covers back kind of how they had been. It wasn’t a considered thought, but I was still muzzy from sleep and didn’t want to wake up for the day just yet.

In the dim light of the single lantern of the loft, I saw her horns poke above the floor, then I closed my eyes. She walked to the bed and climbed in, taking a moment to get comfortable. I could feel her pressing against my back as she settled in.

She yawned and I felt the blanket move as she pulled it up, then she nestled up against me, spooning me, her arm reaching around my chest, resting on my stomach just below my navel.

I could feel her chin pressing between my shoulder blades, her breath on the nape of my neck, I could even feel the covers shift as her tail flicked, and then some time passed and she was asleep again, leaving me alone in the dark with my thoughts.

Until now, I hadn’t really had time to reflect. I’d been reacting in the moment, or at least it felt like that in hindsight. I’d gotten lured in—understandably so—and I followed Ivy’s instructions. What did that mean? What did that make me? I wasn’t sure.

What would the morning bring? Depending on what time it was, I could count how long the two of us had spent together on the fingers of my hands, and yet it felt as if I had always been here. And I knew, deep down, that after the weekend was over it would be over; unless I proved myself exceptionally useful or a better lover than she’d ever had, she’d give me a ride back home and that would be that. Maybe I could call Home Depot and beg for my old job back—I spent longer than I should have trying to remember what the employee manual had said about unexcused absences.

Was having my old job back worth it? I could find another one, one that was better. What if that was ultimately the opportunity that Ivy was giving me?

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remembered a novel I’d read that had a similar theme. I couldn’t remember what it was, although it had something to do with boats. And a rich, spoiled protagonist who learned his place in life.

It would come to me, or it wouldn’t. I rolled onto my back, carefully so as to not disturb Ivy. She shifted around, nestling up against me again as soon as I settled. Her hand still rested on my stomach and I could see one bare breast in the dim lamplight. As tempting as it was to grope, I instead pulled the covers up over her—I couldn’t deny the pleasure it would bring but was that better than the completeness I felt with her snuggled up against me? The morning would bring what it brought; for now I was happy watching the shadows cast by the oil lamp dance across her body, painting her in sharp relief.

Requiem Aeternam played at my mind—all fell before the bull.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, thoughts were muddled, confused; other times they were preternaturally clear. I hadn’t fallen, I’d won.

Hadn’t I?

The lamplight danced across her somnambulant body, and I was at peace with my choice. Maybe she wasn’t human, but she was where it mattered. For better or worse I could live with that, so I snuggled against her, the two of us melding into one, and it felt right.

•••

Morning came, and with it another momentary disorientation before I remembered that I wasn’t spooning a pillow.

I had morning wood, which I didn’t think that Ivy would mind, and I really had to piss, although I wasn’t ready to get out of bed just yet. My left arm was irretrievable, pinned under her head. It felt numb from the elbow down, which portended lots of pins and needles when I finally did get it back.

My right arm draped across her, my hand touching just along her ribs. I could feel the gentle rise of her chest and she breathed and feel her heartbeat and the underside of a boob pressing against the side of my hand.

I wouldn’t mind waking up with her hand on my cock, or even caressing my nipples, and I was drowsy enough to start moving my hand along the curve of her breast before remembering that she had horns and as close as I was to the back of her head, even an accidental twitch might result in a scar.

Ivy settled it for me; she rolled on her back, grabbed my hand, and planted it on her breast. She whispered into my ear: “You’ve got five minutes to have your fun. I’ve got to piss.”

“So do I.”

There wasn’t a clock in her loft, which meant that the five minutes were what she said they were. If I really got her going, the time might be extended . . . and if my performance was lacking, that time might be shortened.

Yesterday she’d always been leading, directing; now it was my chance to explore where I wanted. Start with her breasts, she’d already put my hand there.

They felt different when she was on her back, or maybe that was my imagination. I gave a gentle squeeze and started moving my finger around, tracing across the soft flesh, circling in to the rougher areola and her nipple, already stiff under my touch. Then down her stomach, gentle and careful not to press. All the way down to the edge of her fur—it was weird how it was a very clear border, like a hairline. Not that I’d ever really thought of it before, but if I had, I would have thought that there was a gradual transition between human half and bovine half, maybe light vellus hair and then thicker body hair before reaching the fur, but Ivy wasn’t like that at all. She had fine body hair on her stomach, and then the fur started almost in line with the ridge of her hip bones.

Today should be a day of gentle exploration, at least if I could get away with it. My curiosity was starting to win out over my horniness, which was strange. It was true that most work days I had at least some morning wood, and of course didn’t act on it, especially not if I had a morning shift. A few times, the temptation had been strong, and I’d had my eye on the clock as I rubbed one out—even if I’d been ballsy enough to admit it, Mark wouldn’t have accepted that I was late because I was jerking off .

With my arm across her crotch, stroking a love handle, with my eyes on breasts dappled in the morning light, she looked exactly human, she looked like a woman I might fantasize waking up next to, and then I moved my hand revealing sleep-clumped fur, and there was a tiny conditioned part of my mind screaming out that this was unnatural, this was a sin, this was barely removed from bestiality, and every other part of my mind dogpiled on it and beat it into submission.

Because who the fuck has a moral crisis while in bed with a partner who’s hot as hell, content to walk around nude, and who might wind up fucking me to death?

So what if she did? It would be an honorable death.

I slid my hand down the inside of her thigh, almost but not quite touching her between the legs. Pissing with a hardon was possible but difficult and I didn’t know how it worked for girls. If I gave her a girlboner, would she not be able to piss until it subsided, and be mad at me as a result?

Who was I kidding, I probably wasn’t good enough to give her a girlboner unless she wanted one. Just the same, I moved back to safer morning territory, teasing along her stomach and around her belly button, wondering if it was arousing or just weird to stick a finger in there.

Maybe when we knew each other better I’d give it a try. Or maybe I’d wimp out and regret it, since it was always in the back of my mind that come Sunday she’d drive me home, drop me off, and I’d never see her again.

Which would be the greater regret, not playing with her navel or not taking every opportunity I had to fondle her breasts?

I could fondle her breasts while I considered that dilemma. Taking turns, because it wasn’t fair that only the right boob was getting any action.

•••

I spent my five minutes wisely, until Ivy pushed my hand off and leaned forward before sitting up. I pulled my other arm back and tried to wiggle my fingers, proving that they at least still worked.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stretched, folding her arms behind her head and arching her back. I reached off to the side and felt around on the floor for my underwear before remembering that my clothes were still downstairs.

And then I also remembered that we’d lost our clothes on the way here, that we’d shed the veneer of normal society on the backroads of northern Michigan.

•••

Looking down from the top, the ladder was more intimidating. I would have to turn and trust that there was a rung below me, that my hands wouldn’t slip—I knew they wouldn’t, not even my left. There was something intimidating about a ladder the first thing in the morning.

“Your hand not awake yet?”

I shook my head.

“I ought to go down the ladder first, then. I can catch you if you lose your grip.”

“Yeah, with your horns.” I put my leg over the edge. “Besides, if I fall, I wouldn’t mind the last thing I see being you coming down the ladder to rescue me.”

“Just an excuse to look up, huh?”

“Yup.” I ducked over the edge and descended, and she followed down a moment later. The view was everything I’d hoped for, especially since she took her time.

•••

I let her go to the outhouse first—I had to put on my shoes. Bending over to slide them on my feet didn’t do my bladder any favors, and I didn’t bother to tie them.

When she wasn’t with me, it took more courage to open the front door and step outside, nude but for my shoes. I half-expected there to be a cop or hidden camera crew or something. Maybe a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses about to proselytize me.

Did she get Jehovah’s Witnesses at her house? And did they run screaming when they saw her? If I didn’t know any better, I could mistake her for a satyr, and those were only a handshake away from Satan himself.

The morning air was chillier than the early morning sun suggested, and I immediately broke out in goosebumps.

That made it no less beautiful. The air was full of birdsong, the hum of early morning insects, and the blessed lack of man-made noise.

As I walked around to the back of the house, I decided that having a cup of hot coffee in my hands would be one of the few things that could improve the moment, but when the outhouse door opened and Ivy emerged, I decided I could do without the coffee and instead watched her walk back to the cabin.

“I thought you’d be waiting at the outhouse door,” she said as she stepped up on the dirt patio.

“I would have been . . . I was admiring the view.”

“Oh yeah?” She cocked her hip.

“The forest—not that I don’t enjoy looking at you.”

Her stance eased. “It’s funny, I doubt I see it the same way you do; to me it looks almost like home but not quite. When I see it at a distance, it’s almost the same, but then I start to see individual details and it’s all different.” She leaned against my shoulder before slapping me on the butt. “Now hurry up and piss; we’ve got a lot to do today.”

I nodded and took a step for the outhouse, then paused. “Hey, this is a dumb question, but what’s the white powder for?”

Ivy frowned, and for a moment I thought it was a girl thing, maybe something I didn’t want to know. “The slaked lime? That’s to keep the smell down.”

“Does it work?” The vault toilets I’d used before didn’t smell bad, but there was a smell.

“Good ventilation makes the biggest difference, but it doesn’t hurt. Using the lime’s not a year-round thing; in the wintertime I usually use wood ash instead—it does the same thing and I get it for free. Not as good at keeping flies away, but then flies aren’t really a problem in the winter.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you asking all these questions so you don’t have to work?”

“It depends. Will I get a reward after work?”

“Work is its own reward.” She pushed me towards the outhouse. “Hurry up or you won’t get breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

•••

I’d expected her to be back in the cabin making breakfast when I got done in the outhouse, but she wasn’t—she was standing right where I’d left her, watching with a bemused look as I picked my way up the trail. I didn’t mind; it gave me something to look at, a near goal to work towards. Something more enticing than the work she had planned for after breakfast.

When I got next to her, she turned and the two of us started walking back to the front door. “When I get the deck built, I’m going to build a pair of those wooden lounging chairs,” she said.

“Chaise lounges?”

Ivy frowned. “No, not those. They’re something else, there’s a word for them, anacondic?”

“That’s a snake. An anaconda.”

“Adacondic? No, Adirondack. That way I can come up after a hard week at work, eat a simple dinner, and sit out on the deck and watch the sun go down.”

“That would be nice.” It was easy to imagine; any number of advertisements featured a happy couple sitting watching nature in chairs just like that. Or clawfoot bathtubs in the case of one erectile dysfunction medicine.

Thank God I didn’t need that.

“We’ve got a lot of holes to dig and cement to pour in the morning, which means that you’ll need a good breakfast. I’ve got two options: oatmeal or bacon and eggs.”

As I opened my mouth to answer, she held up a finger. “Thing is, I’ve only got enough bacon and eggs for one meal, so if we eat them today, it’ll be oatmeal for breakfast tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you pick,” I decided. “And I’ll help with either.”

“Oatmeal it is.”

•••

Oatmeal was a camping staple, and I expected her to have bags of Quaker flavored oatmeal or maybe a cardboard tube of the plain kind. Instead, she had a metal tin of Irish steel-cut oatmeal. Unlike the oatmeal I was used to, this was ground into much smaller flakes, almost a powder.

Vague memories of having to soak grains for hours percolated through my mind—a lot of rices, I thought, were like that before the instant variety came along. And wasn’t that true of some kinds of porridge? I wasn’t sure; I’d never had anything but Quaker’s.

Ivy unfolded the camp stove, connected the propane cylinder, and lit it off. For a moment, the fart-smell of the propane lingered, reeking in the kitchen.

She dumped a couple spoonfuls of oats in the pan, followed with water, then a generous pinch of salt. Literally a pinch—instead of keeping it in a shaker or in a grinder like all the chefs on YouTube were doing, she had a traditional salt cellar. Traditional in function, anyway; instead of a wooden box or stoneware pot with a lid, she kept her salt in a mini-tin of butter cookies.

I hadn’t even known that there were mini-tins of butter cookies.

“You remember where the bowls are. And I should have already gotten the coffee going . . . get that percolator, would you?”

“Percolator.” My eyes roamed the kitchen counter, first expecting to find a coffee maker and coming up short. There was a kettle-looking thing, so I grabbed that.

“Water goes in the bottom half, coffee grounds in the basket.” She pulled a cupboard open and grabbed another tin out. The coffee was in a tin can with a Thomas Kinkade winter snowscape printed on it.

“Don’t like the plastic cans it comes in?”

“First, I roasted and ground it myself; second, mice. Hard enough to catch them normally, if they’re all hyped-up on coffee. . . .”

I hadn’t thought about that, but mice would be a constant problem in a cabin that was vacant for large parts of the year. “Bugs can get in, too. Maybe not through plastic, I don’t know. Metal’s impervious.”

I nodded as I filled up the percolator and set it on the other burner. Ivy was stirring the porridge with what looked like a minimally-shaped dowel rod. “What’s that?”

“This?” She held up the stick. It’s a theavel, it’s what you stir porridge with.”

“Not a spoon?”

“That just drags the lumps around. Maybe if you didn’t have anything else you could use a spoon. But why do something if you aren’t going to do it right?”

•••

The oatmeal finished long before the coffee, although the latter was progressing. The percolator was making happy burbling noises, and I could occasionally see the coffee splashing up into the clear plastic knob on top.

“Do you take your oatmeal plain, or do you like syrup in it?”

“I’ve never had it plain,” I admitted. “So this will be interesting.”

“We could have picked some berries, put them in. There’s a few thickets around here. Well, we’ll go by them later, we can have them later.”

We ate over the kitchen counter. The oatmeal was nearly flavorless, but smoother than any other oatmeal I’d ever had. It had a texture almost like warm custard, or like grits without the grit.

It sat in my stomach like a brick, which in terms of giving me energy for the upcoming day was probably a good thing, although it certainly wasn’t fast-acting.

Luckily, the coffee made up for it. I hadn’t really felt tired, no doubt because instead of dragging myself out of bed to prepare for another day of retail drudgery, I’d been doing fun things with Ivy, and surely at some point in the not-so-distant future, I would be doing Ivy.

I washed up the breakfast dishes—that was only fair—and stacked them in the drying rack. Ivy folded the camp stove back up and stowed it on the counter.

“Do you want to take a shower first, or—”

“Not before mixing and pouring concrete. Are you nuts?”

“So it’s going to be messy.”

“Can’t help concrete dust going places. By the second bag, it’ll be sticking to sweat and fur. I hope you’re good with a curry comb.”

“What the hell’s a curry comb?”

“You’ll find out.”

•••

I’d seen some holes already dug with cardboard forms in them and assumed that that was all of the holes, but it wasn’t. She’d only been planning on pouring concrete in some of them since she’d expected to be alone for the weekend. My help meant that she could get all the post foundations dug and poured.

That was the theory, at least.

“You’re gonna dig the holes,” Ivy said. “I’ve got them marked, everywhere you see a paving block, a hole goes there.”

“Right.” Years of organizing retail shelves had turned me into a fast counter; there were sixteen paving blocks neatly arranged at the vertices of an imaginary grid.

“I’ll dig some, too, and then once we start to have a surplus of holes, I’ll bring down the concrete and mix it and pour it.”

“How exact do they have to be?”

“The closer the better, but they don’t have to be precise.” She tilted her head towards the shed. “Let’s get our tools. You ever dug post holes before?”

“I’ve dug holes once or twice, it wasn’t fun. Are you sure you want me doing this?”

“You want to sit around and watch, that’s all you’re getting to do for the rest of the weekend.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Work was its own reward . . . so long as that reward was more than the satisfaction of a job well done.

•••

There were three tools to be used in hole-digging: a spade to dig up the topsoil, a post-hole digger for the holes themselves, and a digging bar, which was like a long chisel.

Since she only had one of each, Ivy started out with the spade, digging out the borders of the holes. As soon as she’d finished the first, I set in with the post-hole digger.

At first, the post-hole digger was weird to use, it was like a combination of shovels and chopsticks all in one unit. I’d seen them in use before, in movies or on YouTube, but that didn’t translate into personal understanding of how to operate them—I’d watched Bob Ross, too, and I couldn’t paint for shit.

When it came to instructions, I hadn’t paid as much attention as I should have. I’d almost gotten a handle on the post-hole digger when I hit my first rock, and I ineffectually banged at it before finally remembering that was what the digging bar was for. I worked it around the edges of the rock, getting it out of the compacted dirt, and then reached down in the hole and fished it out.

“Rocks, go there,” Ivy said, pointing to a small pile near the foundation of her cabin. “They’re useful for all sorts of other projects.”

“Good to know it won’t be wasted.” With her, I was quickly figuring out that nothing was wasted. Some things, like the rock, were opportunities that she found, whereas others were carefully selected for their future utility. Why buy cookies in a throwaway plastic package when she could instead get them in a metal tin suitable for storing salt in later?

I put the rock in its prescribed place, then went back to work. The soil changed in nature as I went down; it was loamy and then it got drier, sandier, and lighter in color. Nature’s progress bar. “How deep should these be?”

“Four feet, give or take. That puts it below the frost line.”

“You got a tape measure?”

“That post-hole digger has four foot handles. Stick it upside-down in the hole, if the top of the blade is even with the ground, you’ve gone four feet.”

“Got it.” That meant that I was going to be bending over a lot. It was going to be a long morning.

•••

Once I figured out the post-hole digger, I started to make real progress, and before too long I could focus on things other than just the hole I was digging. It was low-concentration work, the ultimate in repetitive motions.

My first hole hadn’t been great; she’d had to do some cleanup work with her shovel before the cardboard form could fit in. The second was pretty decent, and by the third I was starting to become a pro. I’d even figured out that I could use the post-hole digger to lift out rocks when they were beyond convenient reach, so long as they weren’t too big.

That might have given us time for conversation, if we’d been working side-by-side. Instead, she’d started the process of bringing the Quickrete down and getting buckets of water to mix with it.

I was okay with it. She had threatened me with being forced to watch, and it honestly wasn’t the punishment she thought it was. For one, there was the aspect of watching a professional at work that was always fascinating. TV shows and YouTube careers had been built on that fact.

Then there was her physique. I’d never really been attracted to bodybuilders, but Ivy had the perfect curved to chiseled ratio. She was stronger than she looked—I already knew that—and when she had a bag of concrete over her shoulder or a bucket of water in each hand, I could see her muscles in sharp definition. When she wasn’t carrying anything, she looked softer, curvier.

Her very species was dual in nature. In everything, it seemed.

And of course there was the fact that she was completely nude, which by itself was more than enough. As I started on the fourth hole, I realized that as long as I was working with Ivy, I could stay motivated all day . . . or until I collapsed atop the post-hole digger.

•••

By lunchtime, there were ten holes that were full of concrete, and six more dug. I’d dug four of those and she’d done the other two, with the normal shovel since she didn’t have a second post-hole digger.

I’d gone from pain and exhaustion to just numb fatigue; I was drenched with sweat, at least some of which could be blamed on the sun. Once it got above the trees, it was merciless.

She was also sweating, which gave me a perverse measure of pride. I’d hate to think she was so strong that all that work had been nearly effortless.

The two of us cleaned the worksite together, gathering up all the empty bags. I lost count at two dozen, but that told me she’d carried more than a half ton of concrete down on her shoulders, mixed it, poured it. I thought I’d moved more dirt, but maybe I hadn’t.

We’d earned a break. The two of leaned up against the block foundation of her cabin, still cool, and I resolved to never look at construction workers apparently lazing about in the same way again. I’d gone to my limit and then beyond what I thought I could do.

Maybe the work was its own reward after all. Even if this was only for a weekend, the foundations that we’d made together would last decades or longer, a testament to our labor.

The two of us relaxed together, job well done, until Ivy finally spoke. “You’re tougher than you look.”

“I’m more stubborn than I look,” I corrected. “I feel like a wet noodle right now.”

“You look like one, too.”

Of all the analogies I could have used, that might have been the worst, but I hadn’t thought when I’d said it that she’d reach down and grab my cock.

“Maybe after lunch you’ll have more strength.”

“Don’t count me out too quick.” My libido was already rallying; ten seconds ago my body had been warning me that it was running on reserves, was preparing itself for relaxation. All of that was already being ignored in favor of responding to the hand lightly grasping my member.

“If we want something other than sandwiches, we’ll have to—”

I grabbed her head and pressed her lips against mine, thrusting my tongue into her mouth. She was the dirtiest, sweatiest girl I’d ever kissed; I could taste concrete and I didn’t care.

My hands ran down her back, to the curve of her ass, the root of her tail, I squeezed as she tensed, her hand still loosely wrapped around my dick and then she started stroking. It wasn’t hard yet, but it was quickly rising to the occasion.

I broke the kiss, leaned down and licked her neck. Salty, sweaty, dusty—she moaned and pressed against me. “Fuck it, we’ll have sandwiches.”

•••

Yesterday, Ivy had been in charge and I’d followed her commands. Even this morning, when she’d given me five minutes, it was a five minutes that she decided. The roles had been given, even if they were unspoken, and even when I felt like I was in charge, like I was setting the pace, it was really her, guiding me.

This was different. This was fighting sex, this was a struggle for dominance carried out in the dirt under her partially-completed deck. This was as physical and visceral and actual as sex could get; this was the two of us both trying to get what we wanted, even if in my case it was a nebulous prize. I wanted to win; I needed to win, and I pushed her down into the dirt and mounted her.

She thrust her hips up, and I guided myself in, my mind laser-focusing on the desire for conquest, and as I hilted myself I had my victory. Her arms tightened against my back as I slammed myself home, feeling for a moment as if I’d gone deeper than ever before. My lips pressed against hers, my tongue jamming into her mouth—there was no finesse, no art, just a deep primal need, and for the moment I had my conquest.

She locked her legs around my butt, pulling me in tight. My victory was fleeting: now she had some control as I tried to pull back and she denied me.

I was not ready to capitulate; I groped her breasts, a rough, calloused squeeze, the memory of clenching a post-hole digger fresh in my mind.

She squeezed back, her nails digging into my back, and the fight was on.

•••

After, we lay panting in the dirt. She’d kept her legs locked around my waist after my final spurt; she’d kept me in her until I finally went flaccid and then we’d rolled apart and laid on our backs and looked up at pressure-treated wood and overhanging branches and one bold chickadee who was curious about just what the fuck was going on down on the ground.

I could feel sweat or blood on my back, it didn’t really matter which. Ivy’s breathing was still ragged in the afterglow, and mine was, too.

I reached over and rested my hand on her stomach, feeling as her abs released the final bit of tension. She was slick with sweat and I surely was, too. I could feel the dirt sticking to my back, and I marveled at the thought that it hadn’t been all that long since I was thinking I was dirty and sweaty enough to really need a shower; that I was dirty and sweaty enough to be unattractive, almost offensive.

Yet that had meant nothing to her, nothing to me. We’d both had a need and for now that need was scratched. Now here we were, her head resting on my shoulder, her cheek pressed against mine, her breast heavy on my chest and her horn heavy on my head. I knew deep down that Ivy didn’t tend to go for cuddling and yet here we were, our breathing slowly coming back to normal. Here I was, snuggled up to a minotauress for a time, king of the world.

It was a moment which couldn’t last, but it was also a moment I knew I would remember forever.

•••

Ivy wasn’t kidding about sandwiches for lunch. A proper, low-effort meal, and I didn’t mind the idea of it, although I was somewhat offended by the fact that the only bread she had was hamburger buns that were beyond their prime. They hadn’t gotten moldy, at least, but they were rapidly edging into crouton territory.

That having been said, if I’d had to choose between a five-star Michelin meal but no sex or stale Spamwiches preceded by fantastic sex behind her house, it would have been no contest.

She offered me a foraged leaf in lieu of lettuce. It didn’t have the inoffensive generic taste of Iceberg, and provided an interesting balance to the sandwich. Texturally, it fell somewhere between the bread and the Spam.

I didn’t even think until I was halfway through eating the sandwich that the leaf might have been fine for her but not for me. “So, like, how human is your digestive system?”

“How do you mean?”

I considered, gnawing at the burdock leaf. “I don’t want to sound offensive, but I know that in humans, genetically, skin color is correlated with lactose—milk—tolerance, on account of ancient humans who lived in northern climates couldn’t get as much vitamin D from the sun and had to evolve another way to get it. You’re not from Earth, so things that are okay for you might not be okay for me, and vice-versa.

“To my mind, at least in part, you’re related to cows, which means that your digestive system might be built to handle grasses that mine can’t.”

Ivy crossed her arms. “Do I look like an Earth cow?”

“Mostly, no.” I could feel my face burning. Embarrassment, or a reaction to the leaf?

“Ivy does not ruminate.” She set her sandwich on the counter and looked me in the eye. “We . . . our diets aren’t that far removed from human diets, which made a lot of things easy. Like, there isn’t anything in a human supermarket which would make me really sick, the only thing that was kind of weird was beef, ‘cause you could say that I’m part heifer, I guess. At least from the waist down.”

“And the ears. And horns.”

“Yeah, whatever. You’re just mad ‘cause your ancestors lost their horns.”

“Never had them.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but I thought it was.

“So we were always kinda nomadic and opportunistic, and maybe our ancient ancestors could survive on a grass-based diet, but we kind of lost that . . . point is, I did a lot of research on what kinds of feral plants were edible for humans, since that was the easiest to find. When I’m up here, when I can, I like to find my own food. If we hadn’t been working on my deck, we could have spend the morning foraging. That’s the right way to do it.”

“We’re out of concrete, right?”

Ivy nodded.

“And we could spend the afternoon digging more holes, or—”

“Or we could make dinner from what we find.”

We’d covered a lot of things in Boy Scouts, but foraging wasn’t one of them. I couldn’t blame the troop leaders; we were young and dumb and thought dropping M-80s down the latrine or pissing on the fire was the height of entertainment.

Eating store-bought food would be simpler, smarter, safer, which meant that Ivy was right, we should make dinner from what we could find.