
Rick’s mind used to be like a steel trap. But these days he has trouble remembering his own name. Maybe it’s age, or the constant circling that has blended his brain into mush; or maybe it’s the tedium of living in a habitat only slightly bigger than a teapot.





Cynthia never seems to have a spare moment. It doesn’t matter how hard she works, there’s always something else that needs doing. Cynthia dreams of retiring to a tropical island where she can feast on exotic blooms and never work again. Until that day comes, she’ll carry on worrying about being late. Which is odd, since she can’t tell the time.


