Sitting on the plane to Chicago, Mila wondered when exactly the idea had taken hold of her. Did the idea have an infancy or a childhood, or did it ground itself in the soil of her imagination like a full-grown poison tree? What Mila did know was when the idea finally hit it grew within seconds, its roots clawing their way into the depths of Mila's mind, drawing on her thoughts and the very marrow of her dreams. The branches grew robust with leaves that rustled in the wind of every breath that Mila took.