Yes, that's right. Garen is writing a romance. This may or may not be a sign of the apocalypse, depending on how the story comes out. Either way, it should be interesting.

The idea for the story came, incidentally, during First Aid class when we were learning about how to deal with someone having a seizure.

"O gu sunndach mi air m'astar
Falbh gu siubhlach le bheag airtneul
Dol a chomhrag ri Bonaparte
'Se bha bagairt air ri Geors"

With a dollar in change in his pocket and a song on his lips, Whistler gaily trotted down a narrow street, paying no mind to the squalor around him except to occasionally touch his famous green cap at the beggars lingering in doorways. He liked to think that he was singing for them, and that his song-- though horribly violent and completely in Gaelic-- would infect those around him with some of his happiness at the beautiful spring day.

As he turned into an alleyway near the Brooklyn Lodging House, something caught his eye. It was the faded blue frock of a girl, perhaps fifteen or so, with bright blond hair escaping in wisps from the kerchief on her head. She was coughing violently, and Whistler immediately felt a wave of pity. Consumption most likely, that killer of the poor. Whistler had seen its effects often in his travels. The girl's predicament put a temporary damper on his enthusiasm as he felt around in his pocket for his second-best handkerchief.

"Here," he said, offering her the scrap of greyish linen.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. She wiped her nose with it. "It's the flower dust in the air, you know. Makes me sick."

"You've allergies?" Whistler asked, kneeling so he was face to face with her. She nodded. Well, at least it wasn't consumption. "Keep the handkerchief. I've another one."

"Thank you," she said again. She made an odd noise in her throat, her expression turning to one of alarm. Whistler glanced behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary. When he looked back at the girl, she had curled up in a ball and was shaking as if she would fall to pieces.

Whistler yelped with surprise and grabbed her arm, getting a tightly clenched fist in the eye for his trouble. The girl flailed, hitting her head against the brick wall she'd been leaning against. There was already blood staining the kerchief on her head.

"Are you alright?" Whistler asked. The girl didn't answer. Meanwhile, he had gotten his waistcoat off and wedged it between her head and the wall.

After a minute or so, the girl's shaking subsided. She lay very still for a moment, then slowly opened her eyes.

"Are you alright?" Whistler asked again. Her eyes focused and she tried to sit up. "Don't rush, your head's a bit of a mess."

The girl promptly burst into tears.

"Easy, easy, I'm not going anywhere. What happened?"

The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I -hic- have--spells," she said. "The nuns at the orphanage said -hic- that God was punishing me, so I'd never be able to -hic- marry." She grabbed Whistler's shirt and buried her face in it, crying for all she was worth.

Whistler frowned. His shirt was getting wet, and the girl was obviously in no state to be wandering around in the street. Surely Murphy, the old man who ran the Lodging House, would agree to let her stay there until she felt better.