Visual Arts.
If Angela could be anywhere else it would be outside. The bone room is hot with the summer sweat of too many anxious bodies. It's unclear exactly what time it is because the tall intern whose name is escaping her slogging mind blocks the analog clock with his stupid curly hair.
She checks her wrist but it's bare – the silver watch is lying carefully on her desk where she left it before bringing a face to life with wet, heavy clay. The Angelatron isn't in the mood to work and the Angelaperson thinks to herself, "same."
A bone is passed over her from one eager hand to another and she droops between them. There's an indefinite mass of bones and bodies writhing around her, doing what they do best. Someone tries to pass remnants of a hand by her bicep and when the pressure lingers, she realizes it's actually Brennan, grabbing onto her arm amidst the craziness of too many proverbial cooks.
"Angela – thank you."
And Angela remembers why the bone soup accumulated to begin with. They had a face – she made the face – and the final points of the case were falling into place. And coming back into her body, she shifted, looked around, and smiled.
"It's my job."
Brennan gives her a small grin and swishes by, creating a gust of wind for which Angela is grateful. Feeling much more herself, she parts the interns and leaves the room. It's six o'clock. In the evening, she makes sure. She stops by her office, grabs her purse, grabs her paints, and makes for fresher air and the night sky.