Time as currency and the dreadful issue of small talk while handing your life away and being 30 seconds short whilst on your commute.
Nomadic life was fine, so long as one was healthy. However, there were still illnesses that forced a stay. Stays cost. Hot-rack hotel beds were fine for sleeping, and you could harvest any food you wanted in the working gardens, but if you didn’t know an apprentice Gyik chef, the odds of getting it cooked for free were minimal.
As a Hitchhiker, Dirae knew most of the tricks. There was no such thing as all the tricks. Everywhere there was to go, there were new tricks to learn. And the old reliable ones that never really failed.
Such as being able to play an instrument on public transit. It bought in the Seconds, and sometimes Minutes, and they all added up to the Hours it took to get more than self-medical care.
Transportation cut in on living costs, but it saved the energy Dirae needed to get the things she needed to get better.
A man in engineer blues tapped her harp, interrupting the tune. “You’d do much better business playing something more lively.”
She took a thirty-second coin from her floppy hat and handed it over. “Thanks,” she said, and started up a different number. The passengers on the tram remained completely unmoved to put more change in the hat. Dirae played as fast as her fingers would let her, but there was no return on her investment.
He got off on the next stop without so much as a minute return from him.
She played what she felt like, an angry little number, one of the very Australian human songs about things that could kill you including, according to the surviving lyrics, the original author.
That didn’t earn anything either. Dirae had to get off on the next stop.
Her income was thirty seconds short.
Damn that man!
She needed more medicinal attention than her own knowledge. And that was going to cost, and as long as her voice was out, she couldn’t sing. And if she couldn’t sing…
Tears sprung up at even the idea of the idea of not being a Hitchhiker any more. Wandering was her life.
“Ah, there you are!”
Dirae looked up.
A very vibrant lizard in festival gear was grinning with all their sharp teeth. “I enjoyed your music, but I was stuck in the next carriage. Here!” Half-hour coins spilled through their claws. “This is from my cousins and I. We were all singing along and having such fun. Where’s your hat?”
Dirae dug it out of her bag. It was the one with the secret drawstring that turned it into an instant coin purse.
The lizard-child insisted on listing names with each coin. “So you can thank us if you pray.”
He danced off, whistling the Australian number as he went.
Rule five hundred and twenty-three. Always depend on the kindness of strangers. The creed of the Hitchhiker saved her skin again.
Not just enough for treatment, but for supplies.
She’d have to make a little offering at the next Nae'hyn shrine she saw. And thank all of those lizards having their festival. Rule one: Gratitude is always welcome everywhere.
Dirae walked into the Medical node with lighter feet and a flying soul.
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