Part LVII - The Spinach Report
On the morning of December 26th, a gentle winter dawn replaced the alarm. She lay still in bed, her initial thoughts a surge of panic about the warehouse, orders, and money, which quickly faded. The house remained silent.
She turned her head and looked beside her. Isaiah, curled up and deeply asleep, lay there. His small form was hidden under a heavy blanket, with his Pikachu onesie wrinkled and his silvery-white hair a striking, messy accent against the pillow. He was breathing steadily and peacefully. The fever that had taken hold of him was finally gone, leaving only a pale-cheeked, exhausted look that ran deep.
This marked the end of the ceasefire. The war had concluded, and the machine was turned off. Quietly, Maria slipped out of bed without waking him. She tiptoed to the kitchen, feeling the cold floor under her bare feet. The house carried a faint scent of pine from their small tree and the rich aroma of tamales from the previous day's celebration. She started a pot of coffee, moving slowly to enjoy the quiet, simple pleasure of silence.
She was halfway through her first cup when she heard a faint, restless noise.
Isaiah stood in the kitchen doorway, dragging his blanket with a sleepy, grumpy face. He wasn't bored yet; he was just a tired 4-year-old.
"Mama?" he mumbled.
"I'm right here, mijo," Maria said warmly. "Go use the bathroom and brush your teeth. Breakfast is nearly ready."
He nodded, dropped his blanket on the floor, and walked to the bathroom. Maria heard the small stool scrape against the linoleum, then the sound of running water. When he came back, his face was washed and he appeared a bit more alert.
She placed a bowl of warm leftover caldo in front of him. "Eat up. You need your strength."
He ate silently, his mind clearly active as he woke up. Once he finished, the familiar, restless energy returned. Like a 4-year-old cooped up for a week, his mind had nothing to "fix."
"Mama," he said, his voice a little raspy. "What is the production schedule for today?"
Maria took a slow sip of her coffee, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "The schedule," she said, not even looking up, "is 'finish breakfast' and then 'watch cartoons'."
He walked over to the kitchen table, his frustration palpable. "That is inefficient. We have an order to fulfill. We should be optimizing the new workflow."
"It's Christmas break, mijo," Maria said, finally meeting his gaze. Her tone was gentle yet firm, the same authority that had broken his fever. "The machine is off. Marcus, Rico, and the team are all with their families at home."
Isaiah exhaled in frustration and slumped into a chair, appearing as a small, fleece-clad figure with no army to lead. He restlessly looked around the living room, his mind seeking something to fix. His gaze fell on his Christmas presents, and he approached to pick up his new, untouched Pokémon TCG starter deck.
Mama, the holographic foil on this Charizard is misaligned," he said as he returned to her. "It's a print error. I must contact Marcus to have him recalibrate the press before—
"No." Maria's voice was firm. She gently took the deck from his hands, cutting off his quality-control report. "No calls. No calibrations. The machine is off." She saw the frustration building in his eyes and softened her tone.
"You're right, you're too smart just to watch cartoons," she said. "You want a challenge?"
She sat on the floor, cross-legged, and motioned for him to join her. "You invented this whole thing," she said, tapping the box. "You know every rule, every strategy. But... you've never actually played it with me. Teach me."
Isaiah's red eyes lit up. A system. A competition. This was work he could disguise as play.
"You wish to learn the optimal resource management strategy, Mama? Very well." He slid off his chair, suddenly full of energy. "I will teach you."
They sat on the living room floor for the next hour, the bright, colorful cards spread out between them. Isaiah, in his Pikachu onesie, immediately became the General, meticulously explaining the rules.
"Energy cards are your primary resource, Mama. You can only play one per turn. You must calculate the damage-to-cost ratio. Attaching three fire energy to a Charmander is a sub-optimal—"
"Okay, okay, I get it, mijo," Maria laughed, picking up her cards. "Let's just play."
The game was a disaster. Maria was a terrible player. She wasn't a strategist; she was a Mom. She played with her heart.
"Oh, this little Squirtle is so cute!" she said, placing it on the field. "I'll put all my Energy cards on him!"
"No!" Isaiah yelped, genuinely appalled. "That's a catastrophic waste of resources! He's a basic card, Mama! You're supposed to build up your bench!"
"But he's trying his best!"
"He's a variable!"
The game continued. Maria's irrational decisions included using "Potion" on a fully healed Pokémon "just in case!" and opting for "Growl" instead of attacking. Isaiah's thoughts were racing as he watched her strategic discipline altogether collapse.
Finally, he had had enough. Maria had her Squirtle out, and she tapped her cards. "Okay, Squirtle, use 'Water Gun'!"
Isaiah didn't even look at his own cards. He just slapped his holographic Charizard down on the mat with a triumphant smack.
"Charizard uses 'Fire Spin'. I win."
Maria froze. "Mijo... you don't have any Energy cards on him! You can't just—"
"He's Charizard!" Isaiah declared, his voice rising with sudden, indignant passion. His reasoning ("Charizard is the apex predator of this system") had instantly blended with the 4-year-old's playground logic ("My guy is the strongest, so he just wins!").
"He's the boss! He wins! You're playing it wrong, Mama!"
Maria looked at him and noticed the stubborn pout, the flushed cheeks, and his unwavering belief. This wasn't someone strategizing; it was a 4-year-old inventing rules so his favorite toy would win.
She burst out laughing—a real, full-bodied, joyous sound that echoed in the small room.
"Okay, mijo. You got me," she giggled, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. "You win. Your Charizard is just too strong."
Isaiah nodded, his face a mask of smug 4-year-old satisfaction. He carefully gathered his winning cards. "He is the apex asset."
Maria, still chuckling, watched him. The moment he finished stacking his cards, his eyes were already scanning the room for the next "problem" to solve. She realized the house was the problem; every object in it was a tool or a product to him. They had to get out.
"You know what?" she said, standing up and stretching. "You're the champion. And the champion gets a reward. Go put your shoes on. We're going to the movies."
Isaiah looked up, genuinely confused. Movies? An inefficient, passive data-stream...
"Why?" he asked. "Is there a strategic briefing?"
"The strategy," Maria said, grabbing her own coat, "is 'popcorn.' Let's go."
She helped him get his coat on over his Pikachu onesie, kneeling to tie his small sneakers. The body was still clumsy with laces. He clutched his Charizard card in his fist the entire time.
The drive was quiet. Maria put the radio on, a soft soul station, but Isaiah just stared out the window, processing the "inefficiency" of the trip.
"Mama," he said, breaking the silence. "The light at 4th and Figueroa is mistimed. It's causing a 12-second delay for eastbound traffic. It's a waste of gasoline."
Maria glanced at him in the rearview mirror, a small smile on her face. "You just focus on the movie, mijo. Let the city worry about the lights."
"But it's a flawed system..." he grumbled, just as she pulled into the parking lot.
The local theater was old, with a red carpet that had faded, but it smelled of stale popcorn and sugar, which Isaiah's 4-year-old senses registered as good. Maria bought them a large popcorn and two sodas, and they found seats in the mostly empty matinee.
The marquee had read: "NOW SHOWING: Popeye" (released December 12, 1980).
They sat in the dark. Isaiah was a small, bright yellow shape in the large, plush seat, the box of popcorn on his lap. As the movie started, his mind immediately engaged in a critical analysis.
This is a catastrophic misapplication of IP. Robert Altman's direction is tonally inconsistent. The musical numbers are non-diegetic and break immersion. This will be a box-office failure—a waste of capital.
But as he was internally critiquing the studio's poor financial decisions, the 4-year-old's body was... watching.
He saw the bright, cartoonish colors and heard the funny, repetitive song, "I Yam What I Yam." He was mesmerized by the flickering light, his red eyes wide with a simple, childlike wonder.
Maria wasn't watching the movie. She was watching him, and she saw his small hand, frozen halfway into the popcorn box, his gaze completely transfixed. This was real.
The film lasted about ninety minutes. When the lights brightened, Isaiah appeared to "reboot," blinking vigorously as if coming back from another realm.
The ride home was silent. Darkness had fallen, and Isaiah was slumped in the back seat, his head resting against the chilly window.
"So, what did you think, mijo?" Maria asked softly, her eyes catching his in the rearview mirror. "Did you enjoy the movie?"
At 77, he had a detailed, ten-point critique of the film's story and market chances ready to share.
But the four-year-old was cozy, holding a handful of popcorn, and very sleepy inside.
"...The big man," Isaiah whispered sleepily. "He ate his spinach... and then he got strong, Mama."
He yawned, his 'review' complete, and was asleep before they reached home.
Maria looked at his reflection in the mirror, his small face peaceful under the flickering streetlights. She smiled, happy that the peace held.