Bree spreads her ringless hand on the thick stapled document lying between three empty coffee mugs on the long leafed table. She says, "What is this?" He is just now entering the room with two more mugs, these with maple milk in them, one for her, one for him. His eyes widen. "Oh that. Well, in this world there's your Recipe. Then there's their Recipe." Her voice has always a smoky edge. "Project Megiddo it says. It's the FBI. But what are you doing with it?" She giggles. He positions the two brimming mugs on the table. He glances at her face which is purposely hidden by squiggles and twists of shining young-girl-hair, perfectly orange hair, her face deformed by whatever it was that went wrong when she was the size of a thumb...or earlier...maybe when she was a mere idea...though who could imagine Bree, her honey-color eyes set apart like a funhouse mirror image and her mind that to him once seemed shy, nervous or something...but, no, he is beginning to understand that she is not nervous of anything. He bets that the coil of her brain is radiating far more redly than her hair. He explains, "Everybody has a copy of that thing. It's not top secret. It was issued to fire departments, cops, EMTs. Rex...you know...he's with the volunteer fire crowd." "I figured. Cuz of the red light on the dash in his pickup," she says in a warm way. He grunts. "Richard York. He's just like you. He loves to share. He's probably churned out half a million copies of that report." She giggles. Excerpted from The Recipe for Revolution by Carolyn Chute All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
