"This," she said, pointing to his head, "and this," and pointed to his sternum behind which his heart thudded, "are disconnected from this," a final jab at his mouth. "There's no rewiring it, unfortunately, but I can get you a translator."
"What will it cost me?"
"What's it worth?" she asked. "To be able to be understood? You need someone who can take the gibberish out of you and sort it into words the world can hear."
"You know someone like that?" he asked.
She nodded. "A few. They're called writers."