The Kambiatories always collect. Always fairly. Always too late. If you meant a different word or a known reference (like a specific story title), please clarify and I’ll adjust the response.

"Can I choose?"

A root-hand reached into her chest without breaking skin and pulled out a tiny, glowing knot — a childhood summer she'd forgotten, the one where she almost learned to swim but didn't. The Kambiatory placed it on a scale. Opposite the scale, a silver feather appeared.

"Trade," it said. "Your lost afternoon for the ability to speak to birds."