Max didn’t know what to do and he had no one to ask. He watched the silent and still creature, eventually falling asleep with his cheek on the kitchen counter. In the morning, he found the Mandragora behind two potted evergreens, its vaguely human form hidden by the feathery boughs. Over the next couple of weeks, Max sprayed it with water, with milk; he didn’t have any blood, but once, half drunk, he tried beef drippings. The Mandragora didn’t react, didn’t express any preference or need at all. Max assumed it was happy, because it continued to grow.
December midnights, in his pajamas, coatless, Max ventured outside to speak to the one friend he could be truly honest with. He complained that the old men’s question was circumscribed and silly, a waste of a hard-won – and perhaps singular
