In our remote village, most of the crops wither and not a single fruit tree strikes root in the soil. It is beloved only by a stray species of hendibeh, a supremely bitter, disliked variety of chicory that has been weeded out and forgotten everywhere else. Ill-fated as we were to be born here, hendibeh is our sustenance and it pleases our palates. Every few years, when the crop is particularly flavorsome, one of the villagers travels to town and tries to trade in it, as we trade in the fabrics made by our weavers. The attempt always fails, and from time to time it is repeated.