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Delilah was forty, and it felt like a cosmic joke. Forty years of schlepping through the universe, and she'd ended up with a job that involved spreadsheets. Spreadsheets, for the love of all things yellow! She'd once dreamed of exploring the interiors of Turkey(the country), of finding ancient stones, of being able to converse with falcons. Instead, she was bending numbers. It was a cruel irony, like discovering the meaning of life was actually a 10 page form that you needed to fillup and submit at the 10th floor in 10 minutes. Her office was a sterile grey cube, a place where dreams went to die. The only color was the neon green of the "productivity tracker" on her monitor, a device that seemed to have a malicious intelligence, blinking at her with smug superiority. Outside, the city was a darker shade of grey, a sprawling, indifferent beast, a concrete jungle teeming with the desperate and the deluded. Delilah stared at the spreadsheet. The spreadsheet stared back....