Hank spent some time examining the artifacts on display in the great hall. Of particular interest were a pair of tusks from a mastadon, each over ten feet long. At first he thought they were discolored because of their age, as they were quite grey. But upon closer inspection, they bore prehistoric human carvings, covering every inch.

He gently touched one of the carvings. It was a winged creature of some sort. In fact, all the carvings were of various winged creatures. Next, he examined a Mongol sword and shield, and the metal breastplate of a medieval suit of armor. An even older artifact stood beside these—a Chinese brigandine uniform lined with leather tiles laced together, and coated with silver lacquer. The breastplate, sword and shield were etched with patterns similar to the carvings on the tusks. The tiles of the brigandine, rather than being oval, were cut in an odd shape.

A nearby wall displayed two tapestries depicting of the Hindu gods Shiva and Ganesha. A third tapestry hung between them, of more recent construction. It bore artistic renderings of a familar insect, each several feet in size. A brass plate on the tapestry held their names—first in Latin, then in English.

"Ornithoptera Priamus," Hank read out loud to himself. "Common Green. Morpho Peleidos. Common Morpho. Polyommatus Icarus. Common Blue."

"They're butterflies," he said, upon realizing the nature of the etchings and brigandine tiles.

Hank found all the artifacts in the room referenced butterflies in some way. It was often indirect, as with the Hindu tapestries, which had them incorporated into the background. Other references were overt, like the butterfly tapestry, and zoological specimens mounted on boards, highlighted with anatomical art. All together, the collection showcased items from around the world, and a timespan covering millennia.

Hank wondered if other parts of Milton's estate held butterflies in such regard. He chose to check out the basement again, but while heading down the stairs, a different thought took over.

Something smelled delicious. Hank could tell it was still cooking, so he headed for the master kitchen. Bumbles caught sight of him as he entered the dining room and, with determination, the dog made a beeline for the double hung doors, anticipating them soon being opened.

"Don't let that thing in here!" Rio hollered, as Bumbles' nails could be heard skittering on the floor.

Hank thwarted the beast with a moment to spare, shutting the door in its face. With Bumbles now outside waiting, Hank was trapped in the kitchen with Rio.

"Uh… watcha cooking?" he asked, since it was his reason for intruding.

Rio seemed cheerier than usual. "Greek turkey breast on open flame," she said while slicing cucumbers.

"Is it like Greek chicken?"

"No. Like a gyro. Sliced and served in pita bread, with cucumber sauce."

"Oh!" Hank said excitedly. He approached with caution. "Can I help?"

"I need feta cheese from the refrigerator. And Kalamata olives."

"Okay!" Hank said, fetching them.

It turned out to be a harder task than he thought, as the room had several refrigerators. Each held an abundance of food and, as he banged away, Rio couldn't help but grin. She made sure her grin was gone, however, when he brought the items to her. As he placed them on the countertop, he noticed tomatoes and pepperoncini.

"Are we having a salad, too?" he asked.

"Yes. Do you want lettuce?"

"Uh… yeah. I do kinda like mine that way. Unless we have bowtie pasta." He carried on, almost babbling. "Ooh! And Tuscan herbs! With garlic butter!"

It was impossible for Rio to hold back a smile. She looked at Hank while slicing tomatoes.

"You like cooking, hai?"

"Oh yes. Very much. I work in a deli, remember?"

"Do you?" she asked into his almond butter eyes.

I used to.

Rio retained her cheer. "Look, I am almost done, and then we wait for turkey. Why don't you see what Milton is doing?"

"He's here?"

"Hai. In the desert kitchen."

Hank had no idea what that meant, so Rio guided him with her eyes to an area set apart from the main kitchen by, as per usual with Milton's estate, two opposing walls. Hank rounded the corner to see Milton humming and bustling about, putting buttercream ganache on individual squares of red velvet cake.

"Hank!" Milton called out. "My man! Come here!" He glanced at the floor behind Hank. "You didn't let Bumbles in, did you?"

"No. Rio made that clear."

"I thought I heard her yelling something. I was worried it was me!"

"She yells at you, too?"

"Ach! She yells at everyone. Not at me, though," Milton said with a wink. "I'm the boss around here."

Hank gave Milton's wink a grin. He then examined the cakes. "Those look really cool."

"Yeah! They do! You want cherries on yours?"

"Nah. They look good the way they are. Why are you making so many?" Hank asked, as there were six of them.

"You never know! We might have guests!"

"You mean other people like me?"

Milton looked in Rio's direction. Even though she was out of sight, he lowered his voice. "No, I don't. Rio hopes for Others, or at least for more RMers, but I don't think they're coming." Hank had nothing to say, so Milton continued. "I'm sure you're the one we've been looking for because, after all, we've been looking for a long time. She thinks there's a woman out there, perhaps even a girl, who is as good as you. But as I told you earlier, it's hard to tell. You people are too humble."

"Humble?" Han asked, confused. "How is that a problem?"

Milton paused while icing his cakes, giving thought to his answer. "There are sins and there are virtues. Right?"

Hank didn't reply.

"Sinners hide their deeds because they don't want to get caught. And the better the sinner is, the better their deception. You've heard tales of people saying they couldn't believe their next door neighbor was a mass murderer. And the reason is because they're good at hiding.

"Virtuous people can be the same way. To be truly generous, or diligent or kind, one must first be humble, and keep their good deeds to themselves." Milton laughed as he resumed his icing. "Pride is a sin, you know. The worst! The original sin!"

Hank thought about Milton words. "I learned that from you," Milton said, sensing Hank's epiphany.

"I saw your butterfly collection," Hank said quietly, desperate to change the subject.

"Did you now? Do you mean this?"

Milton held up a finger and, seemingly from nowhere, a butterfly appeared on its tip. It was echo blue and the size of a quarter. It flexed its wings for a moment before taking flight, heading out a window vent, and into the world.

"How did you do that?" Hank asked.

"I'm not sure," Milton said with gusto. "But I can make a lot of them!"

He twirled his arms over his head with a flourish, until the air near the ceiling filled with over a dozen little blue butterflies. He pointed at them as if giving commands, directing each, one by one, to fly out the vent. After the last had left, Milton lowered his eyes to Hank's level.

"It's one way I make Reality," Milton explained, as best he could. "It's like, I imbue upon them a blessing—a characteristic the world deserves. And they deliver it."

"But… don't you know who it's for? Or what the message is?"

"Oh, I know what the messages are. Be patient, or persevere. Be honest. Stuff like that. But who the message is for?" Milton shrugged. "Beats me."

Hank made a variety of faces, most of them showing confusion, until Milton took on a fatherly tone. "Hank, my boy… my friend. I make Realities for millions of people. Tens of millions, maybe hundreds. I don't know. I can't very well know their names, or where they live and what they look like. I'd drive myself crazy, trying to figure it out.

"But I know what people need, and I supply it." He admired the craftsmanship of his cakes before turning his gaze back to Hank. "Just like you do, too," he said with certainty.

"I can't make butterflies," Hank said, with equal certainty.

"Hmm. No, I suppose you don't. What do you supply?"

"I don't know. Nothing."

Milton disagreed. "You work in a store. You stock shelves. Don't you make sure the right amount of everything your customers need is available at all times?"

Hank eyebrows went up in surprise. Milton had stated exactly how he felt about working at Asok's.

Milton continued. "So somebody buys a can of beans that you made sure was there. They take it home, carrying with it the qualities you imbue. They share its contents with their family and friends, or give it to someone in need. Then there's the can itself. Onto the garbage man or the recycling center, to be melted down and turned into sheet metal, to construct a building where another of your people provides sustenance for his family, and for those he employs."

"All that from a can of beans?"

"And how many cans have you touched? How many boxes and bottles and jars? How many strangers on the street have you blessed, or neighbors who you've lent a hand?"

Hank took a deep breath. "I dunno. I think you're being silly."

"Maybe. You tell me. How do you care for your people?"

Hank chose to change the subject. "How does Rio do it?"

Milton twisted his face. "She doesn't really have people who she makes Reality for. At least, not like you and I. She can RM a little, like everyone can, but remember—her strength is preventing Realities."

"So how does she do that?"

"I don't really know. She talks about Reality being something she peels apart, seeing who does what. She helps those she deems are worthy, and thwarts those who aren't."

"What about this 'killing someone with a thought' stuff then? Can you do that, too?"

Milton laughed. "Oh no! And I wouldn't if I could. It's pretty dark. Black like Death."

Hank nodded in agreement. "But she could scare someone to death."

"Or pluck out their eyes. Like, kung fu style, or something. She's a fighter!"

Hank looked in the direction of where Rio was, hidden behind opposing walls. "Wow," he said, and nothing more.

"But that's only a last resort. She's better at hiding." Hank looked confused, so Milton explained, speaking quietly. "Rio lives in fear, not only for herself, but for all us good RMers. And so now, she fears for you as well."

Hank's eyes widened. Milton waited for him to speak.

"Why?" was all Hank croaked.

"Have you ever heard someone say they were scared to death? Rio knows fear can kill, because she fights with it often. She's gained a mastery over fear, and grows strong keeping it at bay. So if she were fearful of you, or of anything you might do, she'd kill you, no doubt using fear to scare you to death."

Hank sputtered and spat. "What? Why? What's that supposed to mean?"

In contrast, Milton spoke in quiet, measured tones. "You were the first person to walk in here unannounced, and without our knowledge. No one is supposed to know this place even exists, and that fact is thanks to her. Have you ever seen this place before? You've lived here all your life, and here's this sprawling estate, smack dab on the river that runs through the city. No gates, no fence and darn few walls. Heck, we don't even have doors in most of the doorways."

"Yeah, that's kind of weird," Hank said, thinking Milton's train of thought was rambling off the tracks. "Why is that?"

"Because Rio doesn't like obstructions, so I removed them. She sees far over the horizon as she scans for bad Realities. But a talented Other could hide behind a door right here, or in a crawlspace or a closet, and sneak up on her."

"But I'm not an Other," Hank said empathically, wishing Rio would kill that damn vending machine in the lunchroom, if she wanted something dead. "I'm not."

"I know. But the fact you're not an Other proves to us even more that you're the greatest Reality Maker Rio has ever known."

"She doesn't act that way."

"She just doesn't like admitting the savior of the world is an unassuming man."

Milton returned to caring for his deserts. He placed all six on a tray, ready to be served.

"I don't know why she says stuff about you sometimes," he said with cheer. "I think you're swell!"

Hank was spared from having to comment, as Rio cursed suddenly, and very loud. "Fuck! You damn bastard!"

Both Milton and Hank jumped. "Do you think she's mad at me?" Hank asked.

Milton shrugged. "Let's hope she's mad at the turkey."