“But what do you do all the time in there?” I asked Cindy Lou, for what was probably at least the dozenth time in all the time I had known her. We were at the Italian place again, since it was one of her favorites.

“Sudoku,” she said, gesturing with a breadstick.

I blinked. “What?”

“And crossword puzzles. Oh, and those ‘crypto-quip’ things.”

“Oh, come on. I know I don’t eat newspapers,” I said.

“I’ve got a good memory, though. I think it’s a genetic bacteria thing. If I commit something to memory, I can remember it perfectly—at least while I’m in your gut. And I dream, and daydream—oh, and figure out how to deal with certain bits of food, of course.”

“Wait—you actually have to think about how to digest stuff?”

“Well, duh. If digestion was just automatic, why would you need your gut bacteria to have a brain?”

I decided it probably wouldn’t be helpful to point out that, for most people, digestion was automatic, and they had never had that particular need. “I guess you’ve got a point there.”