The autumn hadn't yet bronzed the park, but reds and oranges were creeping in across the treetops like rust, catching the last rays of sunlight and flashing gold. Clarke snuggled deeper into her jacket, shifting her perch high on the memorial wall. As beautiful as the scene was, it was still cold.

She paused her drawing, clenching and unclenching her fists a few times to try and get the blood flowing back into her fingers. Her breath steamed gold in the sun. Across the park, her subjects continued unawares. It was an old couple today, muffled up to the eyeballs and huddled together on a bench, taking turns throwing a ball for a small, fat corgi. It was an adorable scene; their affection for one another couldn't have been clearer, and Clarke was keen to put it to paper before they decided to head home.

She picked up her sketchpad and pencil and managed a few more lines before her hands started to shake too much to continue. Minus gloves, she wiggled her arms inside her jacket, leaving the sleeves to hang empty, and shoved her hands under her armpits. She probably looked childish, but she didn't care. Nothing was going to ruin her mood that day.

She was only at the park at all to kill some time. In half an hour or so she'd be meeting Raven and moving in to her brand new room, and an hour after that she'd be going to her brand new job.

The corgi barked happily as it ran after the ball. Clarke grinned and kicked her legs off the side of the wall. Life was great.

"Hello."

Clarke turned and her legs paused mid-swing. There was a woman on the path, a gorgeous woman, with high cheekbones and big, bold eyes, and a mane of wavy hair that caught every flash of gold and copper in the autumn sun.

Wow.

The woman was waiting. Clarke coughed, found her voice and managed a strangled, "Hi."

The woman smiled ever so slightly, as though she knew the effect she was having on Clarke. She probably had the same effect on a lot of people. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said in a low voice. "It's just that I see you here all the time and I always wonder what you're drawing, so I thought I'd ask."

Clarke's eyebrow raised. She gave the woman another, more careful, look over.

Leather jacket; ambiguous. Black skinny jeans; everyone wore those now. A beanie; that was promising. Chelsea boots; interesting…

"You watch me every day?" Clarke teased.

The woman smiled again, just the slightest quirk of her lips. Clarke wondered if her perfect day was also going to get her a date.

"I go to the university," Gorgeous Stranger explained, indicating the other side of the park with a look. "I walk through here every day. I'm not stalking you, I promise." She stepped closer to the wall and took a hand out of her pocket to offer to Clarke. "Lexa."

"I'm Clarke," Clarke smiled, offered her hand in return – and realised she still had her arms inside her jacket like a five year old. She wriggled them free as fast as possible and laughed at herself when she finally clasped Lexa's hand in her own. "Sorry. I got cold."

"No worries," Lexa dimpled. Her hand was warm and smooth, and she gripped Clarke's fingers for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Clarke smiled wider. So it definitely wasn't innocent curiosity that had brought this gorgeous stranger up to the memorial. She jumped down, using Lexa's hand as leverage - and oh boy she was strong – and offered the other woman her sketchpad.

Lexa accepted it with another long look at Clarke, and leaned against the wall as she began to turn the pages. Clarke smiled to herself, sticking her hands in her pockets while she waited. She wasn't nervous about her artwork – people could take it or leave it as far as she was concerned – and besides, she was pretty sure Lexa hadn't come over just to look at her sketches. In the distance, she noticed that the old couple were heading home, corgi jumping around their feet as they walked.

"These are good," Lexa said. Her voice was practically a purr. Clarke bit her lip under its influence. Gorgeous Stranger did sultry effortlessly.

Getting herself under control, Clarke turned. "Thanks."

Lexa dimpled again. It was strange to see someone so poised have such an adorable feature. Clarke liked it.

"Are you an art student?" Lexa asked, flicking through a few more pages.

Awkward.

"Ah – no," Clarke said, turning up the brightness on her smile in the hopes of dazzling her. "I used to be."

It wasn't a lie, technically.

"Really?" Lexa raised a brow. "When did you graduate?"

Clarke crossed her fingers inside her jacket pockets. "Last year."

"Oh." Lexa's smile faded. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly. "I don't remember seeing you around campus."

Shit, she knows.

"Oh, it was my final year. I was a recluse." Clarke smiled all the brighter. "What do you study?"

"Law."

Shit. I lied to Judge Judy. Why did I lie at all?

Clarke murmured something about it being an interesting subject, mentally kicking herself. Lexa's brow twitched, but she let it go, turning back to the sketchpad.

"Who's this?" She murmured.

Clarke looked, and a blush exploded onto her cheeks like a firework. It was her ex, Laura, naked. She'd completely forgotten she'd had any nudes in that book.

"Um," she began in a squeaky voice. "A model. From class."

"Really?" Lexa's voice deepened with amusement. "Is that why she's in a bedroom?"

Clarke blushed harder. Lexa's brow raised, a smile once again dimpling her cheeks. At last Clarke gave in to laughter.

"Ok," she began again, "Ok, Columbo. You win. That's my ex, it was just for fun, I forgot it was in that sketchbook, and I am thoroughly embarrassed. Happy?"

"Mmm," Lexa bit her lip to contain her smile. "Do you often draw your girlfriends?"

"Girlfriends, yes, naked girlfriends, more rarely."

"Shame."

Clarke grinned. She'd certainly love to draw Lexa.

Lexa snapped the book shut and offered it back to Clarke. "I'd love for you to tell me about it sometime," she said, voice still a purr. "How about you buy me a coffee?"

It was so bold Clarke was completely taken aback. She froze, gripping one end of the sketchbook while Lexa still held the other.

"Coffee?" She asked, unnecessarily.

"Uh-huh," Lexa dimpled.

Clarke fumbled for words. There was something arresting about Lexa's eyes that refused to release her, something hypnotising about that slight smile. Lexa knew exactly what she was doing to her.

"I can't," Clarke said at last.

The charm broke. The smile vanished. Lexa's voice grew cold. "You can't?" She repeated.

"I'm sorry," Clarke said, and meant it. She drew back, finally accepting the sketchbook, and gestured to the wall, where her backpack, duffel bag, and guitar case were resting. "I'm meeting a friend soon."

She decided not to mention the fact that she quite literally couldn't – there was $4.53 exactly in her pocket right then, and she needed to spend all of it on ramen.

"Ah," Lexa nodded, and a bit of the warmth returned to her voice. "You're going on a trip?"

"Actually, I'm moving in," Clarke grinned. Lexa's eyebrows rose as she took in the two tiny bags, as surprised as Clarke knew she would be, but Clarke was far too happy to lie about it. "If you give me your number, maybe you'll get an invite to the housewarming."

Lexa hesitated, but at last she smiled, shook her head, and got out her phone. Clarke stepped closer to dictate her number to Lexa, and found herself entranced by the musky, floral scent of her perfume.

Don't ask about it. Too early. Too weird. Women don't like it when you smell them, Clarke. We've been through this.

Just as Clarke had found her focus enough to finish telling Lexa her number, a car horn blared. She looked around to see Raven's rusty pickup waiting at the edge of the park.

"That's my ride," Clarke said, waving happily. Raven, still in her oil-stained overalls from work, leaned out of the window, caught sight of Clarke, and waved. Clarke beamed and waved back, thrilled at the sight a fat IKEA box in the back of the truck – her new bed.

"I need to go," Clarke murmured, turning apologetically back to Lexa. "Call me," she smiled. "Or, you know, stalk me at the park again."

Lexa bowed her head graciously. "Bye, Clarke." She turned and retreated, her wavy hair flashing gold where it caught the sunlight. Clarke watched her go, admiring her long legs.

Raven honked and Lexa glanced over her shoulder. Caught in the act of staring, Clarke jumped and dropped her sketchpad. Lexa shook her head and kept walking.

Embarrassed, Clarke shoved her sketchpad in her backpack and grabbed her stuff. She sprinted in the opposite direction across the park, bags banging around on her back and cold air burning her lungs.

"What took you?" Raven demanded as Clarke staggered to a wheezing halt by the car. "I've got to pick Finn up from work still. Who was that?"

"That," Clarke panted, shoving her stuff on the backseats, "Was the hottest girl who's ever hit on me."

"Was she blind?" Raven raised a brow. "Or just dumb?"

"Funny." Clarke got in to the front seat. The instant her ass touched the fabric an explosion of dust hit the air, filling the cab with the musty smell of body odour and old fries.

"You know," Clarke coughed, "you can actually modify the inside of cars, too. Not just the engine. This truck is so ugly."

"She didn't mean that, baby," Raven patted the dashboard. "You're beautiful just the way you are."

"Cosmetic surgery is good for cars."

"Oh, shush," Raven put the pickup in gear and pulled away from the curb. "This baby's got your bed in the back, don't insult her. Tell me about your mysterious girl."

Clarke waved away the dust as Raven drove. "She's a law student, apparently. You know anyone studying law?"
She'd been hopeful, but Raven just pursed her lips and shook her head. "I spend most of my day with my hands shoved up-"

"Don't say Finn."

"-Exhaust pipes. I hardly see anyone outside of the engineering faculty. Ask Octavia."

Clarke murmured noncommittally. Raven raised a brow and glanced across the cab.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing!"

"Why don't you want to talk to O about it?"

Clarke threw up her hands. "Because she might want her! And she's way sexier than me! Let's be honest here, Rae, you've kind of got to get to know me before you like me, and even then it can be a challenge. How long did it take you to like me when we first met?"

"You're assuming I like you now."

"Thanks."

"You're very welcome," Raven smiled. "Anyway, tell O. She's not letting go of her new boy toy anytime soon, but she's still refusing to talk about it, so we need some new gossip. As the only single we're relying on you for love affairs, drama, and disasters, which is lucky because you're very good at all of those-"

"Rude."

"But is it wrong?"

"…No."

Raven grinned. "Exactly. Clarke Griffin: human disaster. Here she comes."

They pulled up in front of Raven's apartment building and Clarke beamed with happiness. In all honesty, it was just a shabby old redbrick with rusted fire escapes, but given anything with four walls and a roof she would still have been over the moon. She leapt out of the car and grabbed her stuff, backpack and duffle over her shoulders, guitar case hanging from one arm, and attempted to seize the box containing her new bed from the back of the truck as well.

"Careful," Raven warned from the front, watching in the wing mirror as she carefully extracted her bad leg from the car.

"I've got it," Clarke grunted, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth cardboard. She was just broad enough to grab it from each side, so she heaved it out of the car and tried to stagger back onto the sidewalk. Of course, carrying it this way meant that she could see nothing but a wall of cardboard, and she promptly smacked into a very person-like something.

"Sorry!" She gasped, dropping it at her feet, but the person-like something merely grinned.

"No problem," said Finn, fixing his messy hair back into a perfect state of messiness. "Need a little help?"

"If I'd have known it was only you I'd have hit you harder," Clarke grinned. "Could you take that up for me?"

"Sure," he said, then, seeing Raven, added, "Oh, it's you."

She put a hand on her hip. Clarke recognised the signature Reyes battle stance. "It is."

Finn folded his arms and squared up. Clarke, stuck between them, tried to make herself as small as possible.

"And where the hell have you been?" Finn demanded. Raven frowned, but before she could speak, Finn's face softened into a playful grin and he added, "… all my life?"

Raven relaxed. "That was awful," she said, and Clarke agreed, but unlike Clarke, Raven seemed charmed by its awfulness. She allowed Finn to throw an arm around her and kiss her, leaving Clarke standing awkwardly by the side of the road watching clouds go by.

Finally, ten clouds later, they were done. Finn grabbed the boxed bed, Raven locked her truck, and they headed into the building and up the musty stairway.

"You like lines like that?" Clarke teased Raven as they climbed.

"No, it was terrible," Raven said, but there was no mistaking the pink in her cheeks.

"I'm going to tell Octavia that you're a big softie who believes in love and reblogs shitty tumblr positivity posts all night long."

Raven rolled her eyes. "If I did, I'd get them all from your sappy-ass blog."

"Yes, but I'm not ashamed of it."

When they reached the top, Clarke and Finn sweaty and out of breath, Raven opened the door to her apartment and they all piled in. It was a cosy place, or it would have been, if there weren't so many hammers and dangerous-looking bits of engine lying around. There was a living room piled high with gadgets, coffee cups, and textbooks, a modest T.V, and two deceptively squishy-looking blue sofas which Clarke knew hid a vast graveyard of metal shards and tools, ready to deliver death by a thousand cuts to anyone foolish enough to jump on them. Beyond that was a spotless kitchen used for nothing but storing empty take-away containers, a bathroom full of Finn's hair products, and their bedroom, the door of which was firmly shut and Clarke, having heard enough wince-inducing stories about their increasingly kinky sex, had no desire to look in.

Finn leant the box against the living room wall and headed to the kitchen, too out of breath to wheeze anything but, "Coffee."

There was one final door that remained unopened.

Raven hesitated with her hand on the knob. "So, you know your room is kinda… small, right?" She said.

"I remember," Clarke said, getting her breath back. Just hearing the words 'your room' were enough to make her smile. "It doesn't matter, Rae. It really doesn't."

Raven sighed and opened the door.

It was tiny; perhaps five feet by ten. A line of hooks on the walls and the grimy squares left on the carpet by age-old boxes revealed that the room had been storage, or perhaps a walk-in closet.

Clarke took a step inside. There was a window, and that same bright autumn sunlight poured in, setting fire to the sparks of dust which swirled in the breeze of the opened door. It smelled like a garage; oil and dust and moulding cardboard. She took a deep breath of it.

"You ok?" Raven said. "I'm sorry; I know it's not much. But you said it's only for a couple of months, right?"

"Yeah," Clarke turned, grinning. "It's perfect, Rae. Thank you so much for this."

"I'm lending you the closet, Clarke," Rae said. "Don't worry about it. All we had to do was take out a couple of boxes. I didn't even think a person would be able to fit in here until you mentioned it."

Clarke blushed and turned as though continuing to examine the room to hide it. She'd been dropping hints to all her friends about needing a place to stay for weeks. She'd had to evacuate Octavia's couch after Lincoln had become a regular visitor – and their sex life had become a regular visitor to the couch. Desperation had finally driven her to ask directly, "If a bed could fit in your closet, could I stay?"

Raven hadn't asked her about it – about why she was so reluctant to go home – yet. Clarke wanted to stall on that point for as long as was humanly possible.

"It's not that small," she said, reaching out and touching both walls at once, which served only to disprove her words. "Ok, it is kinda small. But hey, it's not Harry Potter if it's not under the stairs."

Raven chuckled. "Well, if you need any shelves putting up, give me a call. We can measure what's left after we put the bed in and see if we can get a wardrobe. I can always abuse the university facilities to put one together. Where's the rest of your stuff?"

"This is it," Clarke said. Raven gave her a disbelieving look, and Clarke shrugged uncomfortably. "I decided to cut down. Minimalism, Reyes. It's trendy."

Raven, having the dubious honour of being one of Clarke's oldest friends, saw through this lie immediately. Her dark brows lowered in a frown. Her arms, as though of their own accord, folded.

"Clarke," she began, using her especially gentle voice which was usually only reserved for melodramatic, weeping, inebriated Clarke, "It's totally fine for you to stay here, you know? But it'd be nice to know why-"

Finn appeared. "Coffee!" He announced, juggling three hot cups in his hands. Everyone took one, scalding themselves and swearing.

Clarke looked desperately at Raven over the top of her mug. Not in front of Finn.

Raven sipped her coffee and gave a short nod. They'd talk later. Relief made Clarke sigh out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding.

"I forget if you took cream or sugar, Clarke," Finn was saying when she tuned back in.

Clarke glanced away from Raven. "Both," she said. "No worries, though."

"Oh, my bad. There's sugar in the kitchen. Help yourself."

"Thanks. And thanks for letting me stay. Both of you," Clarke looked between them. "I really appreciate it. I won't be a pain, I promise."

"Hey, mi casa es tu casa," Finn exclaimed. "Especially when Raven is paying the rent."

Raven elbowed him hard, and he retreated, laughing all the way. Clarke blinked. "You pay his rent? What are you, his sugar momma?"

"Well, now I'm yours, too, so don't complain." Raven drew a boxcutter from her pocket and tossed it over. Clarke missed it completely and it thumped to the floor. "Have fun unpacking. Do you have work tonight or do you want to eat with us?"

Clarke hoped Raven couldn't hear her stomach rumble at the thought of dinner. "Uh, no thanks," she said, grabbing the boxcutter. "I've got to go in a few hours. I'll get something at the cafeteria in the hospital."

Raven made gagging noises at the mention of hospital food and left. Clarke heard her talking to Finn, then the inevitable sounds of kissing, and promptly shut the door. She was grateful for Raven letting her stay, but not grateful enough to make listening to them eating each others' faces worth it.

The closing door threw up a fresh cloud of dust, shining gold in the sunlight and reminding her of the leaves in the park. The park took her memory straight to the gorgeous stranger who had asked her for coffee. Clarke touched her phone – but left it. Too soon.

She got to work setting up her new room.

First, the bed had to be unpacked. She'd been dreading it being a horrendous IKEA nightmare of nuts and bolts and instruction guides ten feet square, but it turned out to just be a folding guest bed with a lumpy mattress attached. All it took was pulling it out of the box, unfolding it, and throwing on her old sheets. Raven leant her a pillow and blanket from the sofa, and that was it.

Her clothes she just stuck on hangers and arrayed on the old coat hooks. There weren't many of them, just whatever she'd managed to grab from her mom's house before she left, but fortunately all she really needed were jeans and t-shirts to wear at work under her scrubs. It was a shame she'd forgotten to grab any sweaters, she thought, beginning to shiver. There were no radiators in her little box room, and outside it was only going to get colder. She'd just have to keep her jacket on all the time.

When she'd finished she sat on the bed and considered the room. Unpacking had only taken her ten minutes. The guest bed, the borrowed blanket, and the half-empty coat hooks made for a sad view, but she was at a loss as to how to fix it.

She sipped the coffee Finn had brought, and fished out a half-eaten sandwich from her backpack that she'd been saving for dinner, nibbling at it while she puzzled it over.

The room was too plain. Anyone could live here, she thought. I have to make it mine.

Sandwich hanging out of her mouth, Clarke extricated her guitar, shoved the case under the bed with her empty duffle, and propped it snugly in the corner by the window. She took out her sketchbooks and tore out a few practise pieces, paintings and pastels – anything colourful – and stuck them above her bed with blu-tac. She left art supplies, paint-boxes and pencils and stiff, dirty brushes, scattered on the windowsill along with her empty coffee cup, as though to emulate the messiness of a well-lived in place.

It wasn't much, but it would do. She could make it home.

At eight she left the house, surprising Raven and Finn, who were snuggled together on the couch. Clarke tried not to sound too envious when she said goodbye and told them she'd be away all night.

"You're on nights?" Raven said. "You hate nights."

"Not now I owe you rent I don't," Clarke said, trying for levity. "I love them."

"Yeah, get out there and work, Griffin," Finn said, grabbing a spanner from the mess on the coffee table. "Or I'll break your knees."

It was a bit more threatening than funny, but Raven didn't react, so Clarke didn't either. "If you break my knees I won't be able to leave you guys alone to bang," Clarke warned, waving over her shoulder as she left.

She headed out, down the musty stairs, the air getting colder and colder until she opened the outside door and hissed at the impact of the icy wind. Regretting her sweaters more than ever, she huddled into her jacket and jogged to the bus stop through a haze of smoky breath and blurred streetlights.

She worked at a care home, a halfway house between the hospital and death. It was a surprisingly cheerful place, and most of her job involved taking old people to the toilet and chatting to the residents about their families, with a side order of medication distribution to justify her useless two years of medical school.

The first few hours of her shift passed in a blur of artificial light and artificial smiles. Patients were medicated, fed, placated, or amused, until finally quiet reigned throughout Clarke's rooms and the matron announced she was going home, leaving Clarke and another carer to sit in the darkened halls and wait for sunrise.

Clarke shuffled to the kitchen to get them both a cup of coffee – it was free. The other carer, Wells, didn't thank her; he never did, but she always brought him one anyway. They hardly spoke, but it suited Clarke that night. She set herself up at a different desk, a single lamp shining down on her and her sketchbook like a spotlight in the darkness.

The home was a good place to practice, the night shifts even better. Clarke opened it to her sketch of the old couple from the park and began to idly fill in some details. Pencil wasn't her forte, but she wanted to practise, and this, she decided, would become a watercolour, so she couldn't break out her favourite charcoals.

It took her about an hour to finish all the details she wanted, a peaceful hour filled with the sound of scratching pencils and sipped coffee and the turning pages of Wells' book. She was just twitching in the tiny pencil-strokes which made up the old man's smile when the buzzer sounded.

She checked the wall. Bed 63. Clarke looked at Wells. Wells looked at his book.

Sighing, Clarke closed her sketchbook and got to her feet. "No, I'll go," she assured Wells as she left. "You relax."

"Thanks," he said, turning another page.

Clarke headed into the dark corridors, scrubs shushing with each step, her torch flashing on laminated signs and plastic plants. Sighs and mutters followed as she went past each door and disturbed residents murmured protests in their half-sleep. It wasn't exactly a restful atmosphere – toeing the line between showroom house and horror movie hospital – but she knew the occupant of bed 63 well enough not to be scared.

The door, when she reached it, was open. Clarke paused. From beyond the door, the sound of the buzzer going off was faint.

Her torch wavered, flicking between the door handle and the darkness beyond. She nudged the door with her toe and it swung wider.

"Mr. Wallace?" She whispered.

If he's dead, I'll kill him. Kill him dead-er.

The room was spacious, but plain; a curtained window, wardrobe, and a few armchairs. Above the bed, the 'help' light flashed orange in time with the buzzer. The bed itself was empty.

Clarke rushed in. "Mr. Wallace?" She cried. Next to the bed, his wheelchair lay on its side. "Oh, jesus."

She turned back to the door, fumbled for the lights. They snapped on, blinding her. Something banged. Clarke jumped and turned.

A white Scream mask loomed into her eyes. A black mass sailed from the wardrobe straight at her face. Fingers like iron gripped her by the shoulders. She screamed – then clamped a hand over her mouth. The figure in the death costume was laughing.

Clarke tore off its mask. "DANTE."

Dante Wallace's lined face was creased with amusement. His chest, weak as usual, struggled to let him get the words out. "You – jumped – this – high," he panted between giggles. He took his hand off her shoulder to measure exactly how high, and nearly fell flat on his face. Clarke swooped to catch him, grunting with effort as she half-carried him back to his bed.

"Yes, yes, very funny," she grunted. "Hold on to me – that's it – easy."

Dante collapsed onto the bed, still shaking with laughter. "I got you," he wheezed. "I got you."

"You sure did," Clarke agreed, not half as amused as he was. "You were fast asleep when I came round earlier. How the hell did you get into the wardrobe?"

"Chair," he said, wiping his eyes. "Pushed it afterwards. Easy."

Clarke sighed and righted the wheelchair, tucking it in next to the bars and things which helped him get into and out of bed himself. "We need to tie you down," she said. "Strap you in like a rollercoaster."

"I would always escape!" He declared. "Although that does sound amusing."

Clarke smiled. Dante Wallace's lust for life – even after having been dumped here by his good-for-nothing son a year ago – always made her feel better, as though his was a fire that warmed everyone around him.

"So, how's the portfolio coming along?" He asked as she tucked him back into bed and tidied his room.

"Oh, so-so," she murmured. "I'm working on my watercolours. They never seem to do what I want."

"You have to let them do what they want!" Dante insisted. "They'll show you something new, I promise."

Clarke smiled. Dante always spoke like this; as though art was its own person. "I'll work on it," she said.

"Let me see your practice pieces," he said. "I bet you've been being too insistent with your lines again."

Clarke, finished tidying, sat down in one of the armchairs by the bed. The clock on the cabinet ticked loudly in her ear. "I tore them all out," she admitted.

Dante shot upright. "What?"

"No, no –" It took a few moments to calm him. "To decorate my new room," Clarke explained. "I wanted colours on the walls. Like yours."

"Oh," the old man sighed. "Oh, good. Like mine, eh?"

He looked around at the miniature canvasses hung from the walls, the bright flowers and lakes that he had painted. There were no photographs, or even paintings, of his family.

Suddenly Dante turned to look at her, eyes lucid and clear. "New room, eh?" He asked. "You left your friend's couch at last? Where to?"

"Another friend's closet," Clarke admitted.

Dante laughed. He reached out and patted her hands as they lay on her lap. "I'm glad you have somewhere," he said. ""Baby steps, Clarke. Today, the closet; tomorrow, art school."

Clarke smiled. "Tomorrow, saving every penny I have for the next eight months until it's time to reapply for school, yes."

"That's the spirit!" Dante exclaimed. Clarke didn't have the heart to point out her sarcasm. "Does your friend know what happened?"

Clarke shook her head. Dante tutted. "That's what friends are for, Clarke. They help you when you need it and when you are carrying these burdens."

Clarke kept her mouth shut and Dante sighed. "I bet they're worried about you. I bet your mother is. How many times does she call you every day? Fifteen, twenty?"

Thirty-five times since last weekend.

"She can call me as many times as she likes," Clarke muttered, glaring at a painting of a sunflower. "She can't change the past."

Dante looked serene. "The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago," he intoned. "The second best time is now."

Clarke raised her eyebrows. Dante leant back on his pillows and closed his eyes, as though his sudden lurch into gardening had closed the conversation.

He didn't seem to want to say anything else, so Clarke got to her feet, glancing at her watch and groaning at the thought of another seven hours in the dark.

"Goodnight, Mr. Wallace."