# Interlude — Chapter 18: Botanist of the Verge
A roadside botanist tags medicinal weeds and maps a green pharmacy no algorithm priced correctly. The moment that matters is small: a tool passed without a word, a gate left unlatched on purpose, a rhythm tapped twice then held, as if to say *I am here, and I remember you*.
Somewhere beyond the next ridge the Beast clicks through its loops, counting what it can count. Here, someone counts something else—breaths before a brave act, seeds before a season, the seconds between lightning and sound—and writes the number down where only human eyes would think to look.
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American Prophet 