conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Meredith, Owen's, Amelia entitled Things We Lost in the Fire.. End with the sentence '\nAfter having sex, Jackson and April drift further apart and eventually face the inevitable, Arizona continues to struggle with finding a date, and Meredith talks to Owen's mother about Nathan and learns something new about Owen: he once had a sister.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Things We Lost in the Fire (Grey's Anatomy): While rumors spread like wildfire about Owen's connection to Nathan, real wildfires send a multitude of patients to the hospital, including Owen's mother's boyfriend.\nMeredith and Amelia continue to fight when Amelia finds out that Owen has been talking to Meredith and not her; the fight escalates until Meredith says she wants Amelia out of the house.\nAlex and Jo fall on hard times when she feels like Alex is choosing Meredith over her, but it turns out that Alex was planning a marriage proposal with Meredith's help.\nIn the meantime, Jo patches things up with Stephanie, and they become friends again.\nAfter having sex, Jackson and April drift further apart and eventually face the inevitable, Arizona continues to struggle with finding a date, and Meredith talks to Owen's mother about Nathan and learns something new about Owen: he once had a sister.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Jerry, Audrey, Brian entitled Things We Lost in the Fire.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Things We Lost in the Fire (film): Audrey Burke (Halle Berry) and her warm and loving husband Brian (David Duchovny) have been happily married 11 years; they have a 10-year-old daughter named Harper (Alexis Llewellyn) and a 6-year-old son named Dory (Micah Berry).\nJerry Sunborne (Benicio del Toro) is a heroin addict who has been Brian\'s close friend since childhood.\nAudrey gets tragic news delivered to her door by the local police: Brian has been killed in an attempt to defend a woman who was being beaten by her husband.\nOn the day of the funeral Audrey realizes that she has forgotten to inform Jerry of Brian\'s death.\nHer brother Neal (Omar Benson Miller) delivers the message to Jerry and takes him to the funeral.\nAudrey invites Jerry to move into the room adjacent to their garage, which he does.\nDuring his stay at the Burke home Jerry struggles to remain drug-free and also becomes very fond of Harper and Dory.\nThe relationship between Jerry and Audrey is fragile and complicated.\nJerry helps Audrey cope in many ways, including lying with her in bed to help her sleep.\nBut Audrey, upset and confused, takes out her grief at Brian\'s death on Jerry.\nShe becomes angry when Jerry helps Dory overcome his fear of submerging his head in the pool, as this had been something Brian had tried to do for years.\nEventually her rudeness to him causes Jerry to move out and relapse with heroin.\nAudrey and Neal rescue and rehabilitate him and he agrees to admit himself to a specialized clinic.\nAt first Harper, who has come to love Jerry, is angry that he is leaving, but after he leaves her a heartfelt note she forgives him.\nAt the close of the film Jerry is still struggling with his addiction but seems to be well on his way to recovery.\nHe leaves flowers on Audrey\'s doorstep with a note that reads, "Accept the good", a phrase which Jerry had said to Brian and Brian had subsequently said to Audrey.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: \nHe leaves flowers on Audrey\'s doorstep with a note that reads, "Accept the good", a phrase which Jerry had said to Brian and Brian had subsequently said to Audrey..\nAt the close of the film Jerry is still struggling with his addiction but seems to be well on his way to recovery.\nAt first Harper, who has come to love Jerry, is angry that he is leaving, but after he leaves her a heartfelt note she forgives him.\nAudrey and Neal rescue and rehabilitate him and he agrees to admit himself to a specialized clinic.\nEventually her rudeness to him causes Jerry to move out and relapse with heroin.\nShe becomes angry when Jerry helps Dory overcome his fear of submerging his head in the pool, as this had been something Brian had tried to do for years.\nBut Audrey, upset and confused, takes out her grief at Brian\'s death on Jerry.\nJerry helps Audrey cope in many ways, including lying with her in bed to help her sleep.\nThe relationship between Jerry and Audrey is fragile and complicated.\nDuring his stay at the Burke home Jerry struggles to remain drug-free and also becomes very fond of Harper and Dory.\nAudrey invites Jerry to move into the room adjacent to their garage, which he does.\nHer brother Neal (Omar Benson Miller) delivers the message to Jerry and takes him to the funeral.\nOn the day of the funeral Audrey realizes that she has forgotten to inform Jerry of Brian\'s death.\nAudrey gets tragic news delivered to her door by the local police: Brian has been killed in an attempt to defend a woman who was being beaten by her husband.\nJerry Sunborne (Benicio del Toro) is a heroin addict who has been Brian\'s close friend since childhood.Things We Lost in the Fire (film): Audrey Burke (Halle Berry) and her warm and loving husband Brian (David Duchovny) have been happily married 11 years; they have a 10-year-old daughter named Harper (Alexis Llewellyn) and a 6-year-old son named Dory (Micah Berry)
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Things We Lost in the Fire
  Or who would be the next to die. It wasn't a rational idea. I told it to Lala at her hair salon the afternoon I went back to dye my tips pink again, a job that took hours. Now no one was flipping through magazines or painting their nails or sending text messages while they waited their turn in Lala's chair. Now they did nothing but talk about the Headless Boy. The time of prudent silence had passed, but I still hadn't heard anyone name a suspect in anything but the most general way. Sarita was telling how once, in Chaco, where she was from, a similar thing had happened, only to a little girl.
  I dreamed about the dirty kid. I went out onto the balcony and he was in the middle of the street. I waved my arms at him, trying to get him to move because a truck was barreling toward him. But the dirty kid kept looking up, looking at me and the balcony, smiling, his teeth scummy and small. And the truck ran him over and I couldn't help seeing how the wheel burst his belly open like a soccer ball and then dragged his intestines as far as the corner. In the middle of the street was the dirty kid's head, still smiling, his eyes open.
  One night I came home late because, after the office, I'd gone to a colleague's birthday party. It was one of the last days of summer. I took the bus home and got off before my stop so I could take a walk through the neighborhood, alone. By then I knew how to handle myself again. If you know what you're doing, Constitución is easy. I was smoking as I walked. Then I saw her.
  The dirty kid's mother was thin; she'd always been thin, even when she was pregnant. From behind, no one would have guessed at the belly she'd had. It's the usual build of addicts: the hips stay narrow like they're refusing to make room for the baby, the body doesn't produce fat, the thighs don't expand. At nine months, the legs are two rickety sticks holding up a basketball, a woman who swallowed a basketball. Now, without her belly, the dirty kid's mother looked more than ever like a teenager as she leaned against a tree, trying to light her crack pipe under the streetlight, unconcerned about the police—who'd been patrolling the neighborhood much more frequently since the Headless Boy's murder—or about other addicts or anything else.
  I approached her slowly, and when she saw me, there was immediate recognition in her eyes. Immediate! Her eyes narrowed, squinted: she wanted to run away, but something stopped her. Maybe she was dizzy. Those seconds of doubt were enough for me to block her escape, to stop in front of her, force her to talk. I pushed her against the tree and held her there. She wasn't strong enough to fight back.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Juan Martín yelled at me: "Not once, not even once did you take my side, do you realize? Not about anything. All day long." He shouted that Natalia was a whore, that she went off with the first guy who crossed her path. He shouted that I was a whore too because I'd been making eyes at the goddamn blond barbarian. I told him that blond barbarian had rescued us on the highway, and that at the very least he could have thanked him. "You're rude," I yelled. "You're coarse."
  In the grill there were only two men, my cousin, and the blond trucker left. A dark-haired girl asked us what we wanted and said there was only short ribs, chorizo (she could make sandwiches), and mixed salad. We said yes to everything and ordered a cold soda. I was more thirsty than hungry, even though at the entrance to Clorinda I'd bought a grapefruit Fanta that was nice and cold. It was my favorite soda; for some reason you couldn't get it anymore in Buenos Aires, but it still existed in the interior—maybe they were old bottles, or maybe they still produced it there. Things took longer to disappear up there in the north.
  The men were telling ghost stories. Natalia was sitting very close to the blond guy, and they were sharing a cigarette. He had opened his white shirt a little; he was tanned, he was marvelous.
  Our food came and Juan Martín started to eat. They brought us wooden plates. I've always preferred those to ceramic ones for eating barbecue. The flavor is richer and the oil on the salad is absorbed better and doesn't reach the meat. It was delicious.
  The blond guy said that in Campo Viera they'd told him a lot of other things about the bridge and the stream. "That whole area is strange," he said. "You see car headlights but the cars never come, like they've disappeared down some road. But there are no drivable roads, it's all jungle."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All day long." He shouted that Natalia was a whore, that she went off with the first guy who crossed her path. He shouted that I was a whore too because I'd been making eyes at the goddamn blond barbarian. I told him that blond barbarian had rescued us on the highway, and that at the very least he could have thanked him. "You're rude," I yelled. "You're coarse."
  In the grill there were only two men, my cousin, and the blond trucker left. A dark-haired girl asked us what we wanted and said there was only short ribs, chorizo (she could make sandwiches), and mixed salad. We said yes to everything and ordered a cold soda. I was more thirsty than hungry, even though at the entrance to Clorinda I'd bought a grapefruit Fanta that was nice and cold. It was my favorite soda; for some reason you couldn't get it anymore in Buenos Aires, but it still existed in the interior—maybe they were old bottles, or maybe they still produced it there. Things took longer to disappear up there in the north.
  The men were telling ghost stories. Natalia was sitting very close to the blond guy, and they were sharing a cigarette. He had opened his white shirt a little; he was tanned, he was marvelous.
  Our food came and Juan Martín started to eat. They brought us wooden plates. I've always preferred those to ceramic ones for eating barbecue. The flavor is richer and the oil on the salad is absorbed better and doesn't reach the meat. It was delicious.
  The blond guy said that in Campo Viera they'd told him a lot of other things about the bridge and the stream. "That whole area is strange," he said. "You see car headlights but the cars never come, like they've disappeared down some road. But there are no drivable roads, it's all jungle."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In "The Dirty Kid," the narrator is a middle-class woman who chooses to live in the dangerous neighborhood of Constitución. The story has overt violence and hints of the supernatural, but for me one of its most disturbing lines is when the narrator says: "I realized...how little I cared about people, how natural these desperate lives seemed to me." The horror comes not only from turning our gaze on desperate populations; it comes from realizing the extent of our blindness.
  In "Spiderweb," a suffocating atmosphere of unease comes on the one hand from the looming presence of soldiers serving Alfredo Stroessner, the Paraguayan dictator, and on the other from the images of a lurking, violent natural world: the characters are caught between the brutality of man and that of nature. In "The Inn," the girls' everyday adolescent world of new sexuality and small revenge limns a horrifying history of state terror and clandestine torture centers. We understand that her choices are to betray her mother and the activists, or to burn herself—she cannot remain in between. The horror comes when Enriquez's characters have to acknowledge their border position, to recognize the other reality and see themselves according to a different and dreadful new logic. As Amaro says, "The fear comes from looking into the courtyard next door and realizing that one day you could be trapped there, in a world that seems near, but is unknown and terrifying."
  Mariana Enriquez's particular genius catches us off guard by how quickly we can slip from the familiar into a new and unknown horror. The wraiths of Argentina's violent past appear in her stories, but ultimately Enriquez's literature is not tied to any time or place. Rather, it appeals to ancient, creeping fears that prowl our subconscious, and that, in the worst of times, are acted out on our political stage.
  MARIANA ENRIQUEZ is a writer and editor based in Buenos Aires, where she contributes both fiction and nonfiction to a number of newspapers and literary journals.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Silvina, Burning, Women, Burning, toying, destroying.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In "The Dirty Kid," the narrator is a middle-class woman who chooses to live in the dangerous neighborhood of Constitución. The story has overt violence and hints of the supernatural, but for me one of its most disturbing lines is when the narrator says: "I realized... how little I cared about people, how natural these desperate lives seemed to me. " The horror comes not only from turning our gaze on desperate populations; it comes from realizing the extent of our blindness. 
  In "Spiderweb," a suffocating atmosphere of unease comes on the one hand from the looming presence of soldiers serving Alfredo Stroessner, the Paraguayan dictator, and on the other from the images of a lurking, violent natural world: the characters are caught between the brutality of man and that of nature. In "The Inn," the girls' everyday adolescent world of new sexuality and small revenge limns a horrifying history of state terror and clandestine torture centers. Silvina, in the title story, sympathizes with the Burning Women movement but doesn't commit entirely, even toying with the option of destroying it from within. We understand that her choices are to betray her mother and the activists, or to burn herself—she cannot remain in between. The horror comes when Enriquez's characters have to acknowledge their border position, to recognize the other reality and see themselves according to a different and dreadful new logic. As Amaro says, "The fear comes from looking into the courtyard next door and realizing that one day you could be trapped there, in a world that seems near, but is unknown and terrifying. "
  Mariana Enriquez's particular genius catches us off guard by how quickly we can slip from the familiar into a new and unknown horror. The wraiths of Argentina's violent past appear in her stories, but ultimately Enriquez's literature is not tied to any time or place. Rather, it appeals to ancient, creeping fears that prowl our subconscious, and that, in the worst of times, are acted out on our political stage. 
  MARIANA ENRIQUEZ is a writer and editor based in Buenos Aires, where she contributes both fiction and nonfiction to a number of newspapers and literary journals.