Semi-Daily Scribbles

Zoë feared having to start over. Numbers screamed in Zoë's head, and it was all she could do to write them down. She'd amassed so many combinations, the thought of losing her notebooks made her nauseous. Zoë had been busy over the summer, chasing down bits of code and truncated clues, and neglected to notice the foliage had flown away. Her geraniums had also taken off, leaving behind vacant terra cotta pots. With not even a patch of grass to remind her of home, Zoë hoped the rumbling, rolling numbers keeping her up at night were going to haul in some kind of payday. She always believed fortunes could change without having to hand over one's soul. Good thing, too. Zoë gave away her sanity for safekeeping, and had little else but her life to donate to the collection plate.