"I am glad all the evolutionary linguists are dead," said the Angel of the Harvest. "They would have been crushed to know that this was the state of the Californian tongue after a thousand years."

It stood back. "As I said, the meat belongs to the hunting cat. However, there is more than it will be able to consume before scavengers move in. As such, I would trade for enough salt and firewood to preserve the remainder. I do not intend to abandon it otherwise. We have," and here the Angel of the Harvest allowed itself to vocalize its prideful hope, "a connection."