poor delicate tiny scholarbaby

At $1000 per week to do menial labor, Autor is glad to work for Wilford. Autor has his own room--house, really, Wilford is rarely home, and is quiet when he is--and all expenses are paid. Autor's even learning English better, thanks to an app on his phone--which Wilford also acquired for him. He texts Wilford often, all updates about Buster, in broken English. Autor has a fake ID, a netbook, and plenty of time in between cooking for the dog--and cleaning up the subsequent barf--to study his materials to apply for medical school.

Wilford warned Autor about going out after dark, because that's when the monsters come out. Los Santos is ever so strange; the rules of polite society are fairly skewed, and people shoot each other over tiny infractions. Here, it is legal to run over jaywalkers. They all reset, so there's no reason not to go around murdering with no provocation; all except Autor, who keeps to the house, only venturing out to the supermarket two miles away. He can use his sylladex without attracting stares, as everyone has a portable inventory, which is incredibly useful.

Jim is present in the house on occasion. He's simply there, reading or watching TV or sitting by the pool. Autor ignores him, and Jim ignores him in return, not saying a word to Autor or acknowledging his presence. One night, when Wilford had crashed at the studio, Jim turned up and started playing music, much to Autor's annoyance. Eventually, they co-exist peacefully. Autor knows it won't last.

Wilford demands very little of the ex-soldier and pays him well, so Autor tries to give him his best. He keeps the house spotless--except for the kitchen table, which is covered in mail that Wilford never opens--and the dog happy.

Taking care of the house and Buster is a mindless series of tasks, so it's a good thing that Autor's studies are fascinating to him. Reading the books--anatomy, biochemistry, and epidemiology texts Guppy picked out for him--isn't easy, because he's jumpy and distracted, but he's too interested in the material to quit, a good sign.

And he can afford med school. Anywhere he wants to go. He looks up today's $1000 on an inflation calculator, and learns that in 1915, that's equivalent to 101850 in German Marks, and 21000 in American dollars. And he's earning that per week. Just for fun, he divides a million dollars by the American sum, and finds he'll be a millionaire in 47 weeks. Even less, if he invests in companies that did well in 1915 and plays the stock market--with perfect knowledge of the 1929 crash.

Unfortunately, his life in Los Santos is not all peaceful. A drunken partygoer gave him a fright when she landed in Wilford's pool after jumping out of a helicopter. She, exuberant, survived without a scratch on her. Wilford told Autor to shoot the next person who does that. Autor refused.

Thankfully, the house is quiet, for the most part, and Autor finds he likes his life here. Wilford occasionally cooks dinner when he's of a mind to, feeding Autor things he can't pronounce. After living in Los Santos, where people walk around in chicken suits for no reason and monsters roam the dark, Autor finds that he understands why Wilford is the way he is.

They get along swell.

It's another gorgeous morning in Goldkrone, and Autor embraces his mother. "Hello, Mutterchen."

"Hello, Autorchen," she says, squeezing him back. "You've been hugging me more often than usual, lately. Not that I'm complaining, but is there a reason why? You haven't gone and gotten in trouble at school, have you?"

Autor hesitates. He needs to take the opportunity to embrace her while he still has it; he'll be moving into Milliways soon, and turning his back on her forever. He also doesn't want her to worry about him. "I'm just happier, I guess," he says. "And I want to share that with you."

"Thank you, son," she says, beaming at him and gathering him into another warm embrace. "I'm so glad you're happy. The happiness of one's children is every mother's hope."

And Autor hugs her back, his eyes watering as he tries not to cling.

The morning mist has burned away this Saturday, and the cobblestone streets glisten with dew in Goldkrone. People mill around, getting ready for the day and greeting one another. There are no cars on the streets, but the occasional horse is put to use. Autor leads Oswin through a door near his school from Milliways.

"[Remember,]" he says in French, "[I've told my mother you're coming, so try to... I don't know, act natural? But not too natural. I don't want her scandalized.]"

Autor tenderly cradles the burlap-wrapped roots of his two-year-old tree close to his chest. He brings it to the plot of land a little ways away from Urquhart's asparagus garden that the boy carefully prepared.

A week ago, he measured out a length of four feet and drove stakes into the ground, using a post hole digger to gouge deep holes in the earth. He filled the holes with a bit of gravel and concrete, aligning his four-by-four posts before covering the remainder with dirt. After waiting for the concrete to dry and kicking the posts to make sure it was stable, he attached a wooden pallet to them with galvanized nails. A quick coat of white paint, and his section of fence was complete.

Next, the boy made the land healthy. He dug worm castings, clover, and bone meal into the rich, loamy soil, ensuring it would drain well. Now, Autor drops to his knees and digs a hole six inches away from his fence, lowering the tree down. He gently presses soil around the roots, and mulches with straw--making sure none of it touches the bark. The boy paints the bottom of the tree with a fast-drying, non-caustic paint to protect it from the heat and cold. He waters it well.

Then he sows sweet woodruff seeds in clumps around the base of the tree. He lightly covers the area with peat moss, and waters that, too. He artfully places some rocks of varying sizes for the flowering herb to grow around.

Autor can't stop smiling at his little plants, or at the pleasant thoughts of sitting beneath his tree when it's grown. He's inching towards making his home here--he has to, since he'll be moving into Milliways soon--and a tree is a pretty solid way to declare that he's staying. He sits in the dirt, watching the setting sun stream down through the fragile, emerald leaves, vowing to protect them from frost.

His gaze drifts to the purple mountains and the glittering lake, thoughts meandering around his friends, and what makes Milliways so good to him. He rests his arms on his knees, tugging them to his chest, and tries to convince himself that he'll not miss his mother and sister too much, and that moving to the bar is worth it. That he doesn't have a choice if he wants to avoid war.

Still. He has time. He can say goodbye to them properly, and learn as much as he can from his mother in the meantime.

The boy crouches in front of his tree long past sunset, until he can't see it anymore.