"I have so many things I wish I could ask you," said the spider. "Like…what kind of person were you before coming here? Where are you from? When were you born?"

I tapped once, signaling my agreement. Yes, those are questions that I'd love to answer. Or ask.

"Too bad you can't say anything," said the spider. "I wish you could talk."

I tapped once in agreement (and frustration). I shared the spider's curiosity for questions about personal history and background, but apparently it didn't occur to the spider that I might be interested in hearing whatever story it had to share.

Had our situations been reversed, I could think of several ways to establish a line of communication: for one thing, there was always the option of testing the mute individual's literacy: if we were in any location with a dirt floor, or sand, I could have written a message to the spider. Or maybe something like "recite the alphabet and ask your mute partner to stop you when you get to the relevant letter." Granted, such a method would be time-consuming, but it would be better than what the spider was attempting, which was nothing at all, as it sat, quietly pondering. It was fine if the spider needed time to consider what to do next, but I wished it could at least think out loud, giving me the chance to nonverbally interject if it passed over an idea that I found important. Still, the spider was probably not used to holding a conversation – let alone a one-sided one – and given that the spider had just done me the courtesy of not eating me, I could forgive it for being less than perfectly helpful in this situation.

I felt my hunger growing, and I looked toward the silk bundle that the spider had brought to me and dropped earlier, wondering if it might be some food source that I might be able to mooch. The spider seemed to notice, and it walked over to the silk wrapped bundle, slicing it open and exposing something red inside.

"Oh, are you hungry?" said the spider.

I tapped once. Yes. I knew it was bad manners for me to request food from my host, especially when I had appeared as an unannounced houseguest, but I was relieved that the spider had noticed my interest in food.

"Go ahead, take a bite," said the spider.

I tapped once – literally a 'yes,' as it was the closest I could think of to expressing gratitude – and took a bite of the wet red chunk that the spider had deposited. I chewed, expecting the savory flavor of meat, but instead tasted sweetness. In fact, it was almost overwhelmingly, sickeningly sweet. I swallowed. The aftertaste it left was…fruity. In fact, I was almost certain that it was a piece of fruit.

"Is it good?" asked the spider.

I hesitated, then tapped twice. No. I didn't want to come across as ungracious, but right now, clearly communicating my dietary needs to the spider had to take priority over good manners. I was an obligate carnivore, and the fruit had done nothing to sate my appetite.

"Hmm. You don't like fruit?"

Two taps. No.

"Is it at least filling?"

No.

"Ah. I bet you're a carnivore, then."

Yes.

"That makes sense," said the spider. "Of course a dragon would be a natural hunter. I used to be like you, before I upgraded my metabolism."

Now that was interesting. A spider that had started life as an obligate carnivore, but somehow upgraded its metabolism to become omnivorous? It occurred to me that in much the same way that I had been forced to choose between different breath (and scale, and claw) abilities, the spider might have had the ability to affect its own growth and development. I hadn't considered that ability upgrades could extend to things like what foods a creature was capable of digesting, but if it was possible to upgrade claws and scales, why not a stomach? I wish I could have asked the spider for more details.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Are you able to hunt?"

I tapped once, paused, then tapped twice. Yes, no. Yes, I can hunt, generally speaking. No, I can't hunt right now due to being terribly under-rested and at 0 SP, so please don't deposit me back up on the surface assuming that I can fend for myself. Of course, the spider couldn't read my mind, so it was left to guess.

"Huh? What does that mean? You can hunt, but you don't want to?"

Yes. Well, sort of.

"Me too!" said the spider excitedly. "That's why I learned to digest plants."

I tapped twice. No. That's not what I meant.

"Huh? What do you mean? Is it…hmm. Oh. Is hunting hard, because you're a baby without any friends?"

I tapped once, decisively. Yes.

"I get it," said the spider. "I can help you hunt. Do you want to go up to the surface now?"

I tapped twice. No.

"That's good," said the spider. "I don't do too well in daylight. We can wait for nightfall then, okay?"

One tap. Yes.

"So what now?"

A good question. As best I could tell, right now, I had three main goals, in ascending order of urgency: now that I had a companion to communicate with, finding a way to make myself more articulate was important, and would make every following interaction smoother, but it wasn't a matter of life and death.

What was a matter of life and death was the issue of food, which thankfully the spider had at least some awareness of. I was literally starving – starvation was a slow process, with my estimation being that I could survive at least a week in the worst case, but figuring out where the next meal came from was the main issue that most creatures grappled with on a constant basis, and I was no exception.

Lastly, and perhaps even more urgent than food, was sleep. I was currently suffering a 10% stat penalty due to the effects of starvation, but still sitting at 0 SP (and 8 HP) largely due to a lack of sleep, which seemed like a far bigger problem. It seemed to match up with a basic biological reality: many creatures (myself included) could go more than a week without eating, with some (humans included) capable of surviving over a month without food, but I didn't know of any creatures that could survive that long without sleep. Even if there were a scant few documented cases of humans continuously staying awake for more than a week, those same experiments had shown that it only took a matter of days before senses started going haywire, with hallucinations of the visual, auditory, and tactile variety. Staying in full control of my senses seemed especially important in a world that seemed capable of throwing anything at me: if I saw a giant arachnid, or felt the crawling sensation of bugs on me, how was I supposed to sort between hallucination and something that might be real?

Admittedly, I was no longer human, but my basic understanding was that pretty much every critter with a brain required daily sleep for healthy living, and even if there were exceptions, it seemed unlikely that I would be one of them. I was now more than a full day without sleep – during that time, I'd stayed reasonably alert thanks to the adrenaline response of constantly fearing for my life (first from the threat of the fire ants, and then from the sight of the spider before it had proved to be friendly), but now the adrenaline had subsided, and drowsiness overwhelmed any other feeling I felt – by now, the drowsiness was even stronger than the feeling of hunger. I was long overdue for a rest, and this spider's den seemed like a good place for an overdue nap: hours ago, when the spider had deposited me at the bottom of this pit, I feared it might be my tomb, but now, it seemed as though it might be my salvation.

Given that the spider seemed to dislike leaving its cave while the sun was out, now seemed like as good a time as any to get some shuteye.

I couldn't verbalize that to the spider, but verbs were one of the simpler ideas to convey: I could literally act them out. I waved my claw to make sure I had the spider's attention, then made a show of lying down and curling up in fetal position, an exaggerated pantomime of sleep.

"Oh, you're sleepy?" said the spider.

I tapped once. Yes.

"That's perfect. I need to do a few things anyway. Shall I come wake you when I get back?

Two taps. No. I wanted to give my body as much sleep as it needed, and I hoped that the spider would understand this as a request not to interrupt my sleep.

"Okay," said the spider. "I'll come and check on you later. We can talk more after you wake up on your own."

One tap. Yes.

"Well, I guess I'll be the one doing all of the talking, actually."

Yes.

"This would really be a lot easier if you learned to talk."

Yes.