I didn't sleep well last night. You think I would have crashed since I got home around one in the morning, but I spent most of the night trying to get comfortable. First it got too hot, then too cold, then too hot again. It was a series of drifting in and out, like the tide. Soothing relief followed by the sharp, awakening chill of its disappearance.

Yesterday was stressful, unnecessarily so. Today might be better.

You have to roll with the punches sometimes. It sounds like you're giving up, but sometimes the best defense is to make your enemies your close friends. I'm positive Barry would comment about my situation. To channel my inner Barry: "Bring that girl down." And maybe something about fining. I miss him. I wish we didn't drift apart.

I forgot to buy milk. I blame the girl.

Possible ability: Arena Trap – this prevents the foe from leaving. Further research required

Chapter Eight

Hospitals reek of disinfectant.

If you need more description, they're also very … boring. The flooring was carpet, trekked over and flattened into the ground, the synthetic fibers a hardened mesh of blue and purple. There was a brown streak on the wall to the left of Lucas' head. He didn't question what it was. It's better not to question streaks on walls, especially brown ones, when you're in a hospital. Streaks, like rope, are things that should be fought against. An undeniable truth.

What else is there? The lights are fluorescent. If you look down the hall, the entrance's sliding doors have fingerprints of all shapes and sizes smudged on them. That made no sense considering you didn't need to touch the door to exit. Whatever. Sunlight streamed through the door, a translucent liquid gold. The benches were made out of some weird vinyl material.

There was a half-circle counter stacked with paper and clipboards and charts. It was white, the counter. T'was the nurse's station or something like that. There were nurses there. That's stupid. A mass collection of persons of the same occupation in one general location doesn't make that area that group's area. You can't just claim property like that. Chaos would ensue if that was true! Oh, god he was tired. Did that even make sense?

Oh, that girl was here, too. She was reading that myths book. Stupid myths. Lucas turned his head toward her, and he caught a disorientated version of his reflection in her barrettes. He looked funny, his nose too big, his eyes too small, and his hair pointing out in different directions (well, that was probably the only truth in the reflection). She turned her head slightly, noticed him looking at her, and she smiled. He smiled back. What the heck?

Dawn looked back down toward the text she placed so snuggly on top of her thighs. "'There once were pokémon that became very close to humans,'" she read out loud after seeing how bored the poor boy looked, her index finger following the words. "'There once were humans and pokémon that ate together at the same table. It was a time when there existed no differences to distinguish the two.' Know what that means?"

"Hmm," he pondered. An interesting conundrum. How to go about answering it? He snapped his fingers. "There once were pokémon that became very close to humans. There once were humans and pokémon that ate together."

"That's exactly what I said."

"Fantastic."

She rolled her eyes. "Still bitter from last night, hmm?" She affectionately rubbed her palm against Lucas's hair and ruffled it.

Bitter? Please! He scooted over, quickly throwing on his cap over his unruly strands. Ha! Take that! You can't rub hair with a hat on! Who's not bitter now? Wait, what?

"Whatever," he murmured. "Your little myth here could mean a variety of things. It can be about the evolution of pokémon, specifically those who are considered 'humanoid.' Pokémon, according to history, were more ally than beast. Much more than your 'household pet,' your partner-in-training. Relationships between human and pokémon were formed that would be frowned upon today. This myth implies that these relationships formed the humanoid pokémon."

"So you can read past the literal. Good to know."

"You should have known that."

"Probably." She grinned. She flipped back and forth between the thin pages, a loose strand of hair brushing past her face. "This myth stood out to me. Humanoid pokémon and their origins have always been a mystery. I know it isn't your specialty, but I'm sure you have an opinion on it. What do you think?"

He considered the question thoughtfully, scuffing a foot across the carpet. "From a very basic viewpoint, I would consider adaptation. Those who are humanoid–machoke, kadabra, lucario, and so on–live in rocky terrain, and having the ability to walk on two legs while using your forearms to pull you up is much more useful. You'll be able to trek further in such areas."

She nodded, so he continued. "Likewise, the quadruped is more common in forest areas since it is relatively flat terrain. It makes them more agile to avoid predators – or catch prey."

"So ... You think pokémon that lived in rocky terrain were once quadruped but evolved into bipeds out of necessity?" Dawn closed the book lightly and ran a finger down the well-worn spine. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

He glanced down the hallway where a couple of nurses were speed walking from room to room. "I think they evolved, sure, but from what I don't know."

"But consider other bipeds in the pokémon world. Chansey, for example, do not live in rocky terrain but in the meadows."

"I wouldn't consider chansey humanoid."

"Still." She turned her head and opened her eyes, the pale white light of the hospital reflecting in her eyes. She stared at the side of Lucas's head, watching him fidget with the pokéballs clipped to the side of his belt. "I'd like your input."

There was a pause. Move your head slow. Look slow. Look slow so you don't seem alarmed by the request because you're not. Eyes to the side. Eyes on the peripherals – wait, would that look shifty? Like you're annoyed? Like you thought the request was stupid? Because you don't think it is. Shift your body instead. Why must vinyl be so loud when you move against it? Position your feet to the left. Grip your pokéballs tighter if you're nervous. You're nervous; your nails are digging into your palm. Why are you so nervous? Stop being so nervous. Now move the rest of your body. Your torso needs to move slightly to the left too, you awkward robot. There. Now look at her. Look. Really look. Take her in and look.

Light acne covered in makeup; he could see the few bumps on her forehead. Her eyeliner–or mascara, or eye shadow, or whatever it's called–was smudged at the corners of her eyelids. Was that on purpose? Cheeks were rosy. Was that natural? What do they call it? Blush? The term used for both the makeup and natural glow? How neat. Her lips were shiny, almost sticky looking. Fancy, fancy, sparkly chap stick. Or lip gloss. Something. A few thin strands of dark hair escaped her barrettes and brushed against her cheek, bouncing up and down with every move she made.

And her smile–white teeth visible between slightly parted and sticky lips–was lovely. Ugh, what the heck again?

"Chansey," he murmured a few seconds after she asked. "Well, they are rare to begin with, or they are well at hiding. I'm not sure if they are hunted down – I would think so because of how nutritious and beneficial the egg it carries is. That's besides the point, though."

"I guess," she said, nodding her head. "Go on."

He racked his brain. It amused him to think of his brain like a filing cabinet sometimes, the file drawers opening and an invisible hand flicking through manila folders until it stopped at the right one. He pulled it out and details on chansey filled his mind. "Let's see ... Despite their odd shape, chansey are actually quite good at escaping foes. Their shape, I believe, has more to do with the ... what is it called? The maternal, nurturing state of the chansey. Given the position, I suppose being biped makes travel easier while keeping their upper arms free in case of threat. They're able to hunch over, protect their egg, if under attack."

"Makes sense," she replied, gripping the book between her hands. "But back to humanoid pokémon. I understand the adaptation aspect of it, but I'm stuck on the origins. Data only goes back so far. Do you think pokémon were once humans? No, that isn't what I meant to say. Did … interbreeding–" Dawn's face scrunched up in confusion when she said the word. This made Lucas raise his eyebrows, amused. "–between pokémon and human create the humanoid type? Fighting types are extremely humanoid. Are they just super-powered humans? Psychic pokémon also have human-like qualities and seem to have better cognitive processes. Are they an expansion of the human mind?"

He noticed her nose crinkle at the thought. "An interesting question," he replied.

"I was going to specialize in it but ... I don't know. Is it even possible for human and pokémon to breed? Different sets of genes and all that stuff."

Lucas looked at the clock mounted on the wall above the automated doors. Six minutes past eleven. He had called Eldritch and Alyson earlier–around seven or so–and, from what he could piece together from Eldritch's incoherent statement, they were told to meet at eleven o'clock in front of the nurse's station–or doctor's station, or juggler's station, or whatever mass collection of persons of a certain occupation were gathered there at that very moment. At least that's what he thought he heard. "Meet us at that one ... that one counter thing. You know, that big counter thing. You remember right? It was that big counter thing in that big thing in front of that thing. You know now? And bring Sunny or Dawn or Sparky or whatever her name was if you're not mad at her anymore. Okay, Lukey Lu?" can only get you so far.

"I know it sounds fishy," she said as Lucas stared at the clock, unaware that he had dazed out, "but I do think that the essence of that myth is, to an extent, true."

He blinked rapidly a few times. "Well …" he let the word drag on. "Let's throw you a hypothetical. If pokémon truly are descendants of humans, why did they lose their ability to communicate in human language?"

"The stronger psychic types are able to communicate in any human language telepathically," she said. "Slowking and lugia are a couple of examples."

"Vocally, I meant."

"What if they lost that ability because it was unnecessary to learn the complexities of speaking human language? Pokémon have larynges, tongues, teeth, lips. Consider the wailord. Its skeleton reveals that it has a pair of pelvic bones buried underneath the skin. It has the bones that have helped it walk, even if it doesn't need to now. What makes this any different from the pokémon's inability to combine its vocal muscles to create human syllables?"

"You can't really compare the wailord's pelvic bones to all of pokémon's vocal organs. The former is not used at all and the latter is used in a distinctly different way from how we use them. Pokémon in no way have lost their ability to speak – their trainers just don't specifically understand the combination of syllables they use."

She didn't say anything, but he felt like he should pause. "As far as we know," he continued, "pokémon language could be more complex than human speech given they're able to communicate across various species. I don't think human speech is an indication that a pokémon evolved from a human – I guess that's my own fault for bringing it up. What makes a human a human anyway?"

"Wit? Ability to create something grander through simple means? Technology? Fear of death? Our love-hate relationship for crappy reality T.V.? Morality?"

"Maybe."

"I think morality." She leaned her head against the wall again, facing Lucas this time. A finger wrapped itself around the loose ends of her scarf. There was the brown streak in between them, the referee. "Perhaps the manipulation of thought. Humans are able to manipulate their thoughts so what is deemed 'bad' is seen as 'good' in their eyes."

"I don't know about that. I don't think anyone is really trying to be 'the bad guy'. Some people, despite how evil others see them, believe they're doing good for the world because that is truly what they believe. I think the complexities and various definitions of 'bad' and 'good' are a human quality in itself."

"I guess." She shrugged. "How do you think humanoid pokémon came to be then?" Dawn asked, crossing her legs. "Did they evolve from something simpler even if it wasn't a human? Or have they always just been like that?"

"It's a little too early to get into a philosophical debate."

"I know. I'd just like to know your opinion. I'll drop it after that."

Lucas noticed the hospital door open, and the stocky figure of Eldritch and the petite form of his wife entered. The young sailor had a slight ... swerve in his step as if tipsy on one or two or ten bottles of beer, while his wife gracefully stepped forward with her strapped sandals, swinging her hips back and forth gently. "I think," he said, "that you need to be in order to be. But some things just are."

"Are you still talking about pokémon?"

"I'm talking about anything." He grabbed hold of the brim of his hat and pulled it down. He stood up, greeting the couple walking toward them. "Good morning, Mr. Eldritch." He nodded at him. "Mrs. Eldritch."

"Aly," Alyson replied with a warm smile, brushing locks of wavy brown hair behind her shoulder. She nudged her husband with elbow after a few seconds of silence. "Danny–"

"Eldritch," he grumbled, wiping at his bloodshot eyes. "My name is Eldritch." He scratched the top of his head, fingers running through his greasy, black hair.

"It's um–" Dawn quickly stood up and placed the myths book on the bench. She wiped her hands on her skirt. "It's nice to see you again. How are you both doing?"

"We're well considering the situation," Alyson answered. She sidestepped and nudged Eldritch again so a nurse wheeling a patient out could pass by. "It's reassuring to know that Lane is stable and healthy at least."

"It's the 'why' and 'how' really." Eldritch stifled a yawn. "Sorry. I managed to catch a couple more hours before you called, but I'm still pretty worn out." He turned his head toward the boy in front of him and grinned, rubbing his chiseled, but stubble-adorned, jaw. "I'm glad you called, Lucas."

"I'm glad, too," remarked Dawn.

Lucas shifted his nerves into his fists, shoving them into the pockets of his jeans. He balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. "I'm ... Um, anyway, you told me there was some new revelation? At least that's what I think I heard."

"Come." Aly took a step forward and motion the rest of the group to follow. "Let's visit Lane first."

. . .

Lance, being the ever popular figure, had a cartoon show based on him.

"Based" is such a loose term. "Inspired" would be the proper word had the cartoon been about Lance's triumphs and hardships. Add some romance, a little drama, someone pushing someone else into a pool ... series gold. But the cartoon was about Lance and a bunch of talking pokémon living in Goldenrod City. Crazy situations occur. Crazy solutions are the answer. Then you wrap it up with a moral, like bacon around a hot dog. It's kind of unnecessary, sure, but everyone loves bacon. Lane lapped it up like a hungry kitten after a bowl of milk. It was the reason why he got up at six-thirty in the morning on a Saturday.

But you knew all this already, didn't you?

Anyway …

Was he a girl for a minute?

Everything was cartoon. Lane wasn't sure if he was watching the cartoon, or if he was in it. He couldn't see himself. Maybe he was a ghost. OoOooOooh! Is that the noise ghosts make?

He was standing on the street corner of a bustling city. It was animated, too. Everything was bright but at the same time mundane. The buildings were kind of blurry and colored the same golden brown. The glass windows had the same glint in them despite being drawn at different angles. The sun gave light to everything; the only shadows, in the shape of dark gray blobs, were beneath the pokémon's feet,

There were other cartoon beings. Most of them were pokémon standing on their hind legs. They were looking up toward the two-toned sky – no, the top of a building. "The Goldenrod Department Store" Lane read on the sign. He was standing near a quacking psyduck.

"What's going on?" he asked. Maybe the psyduck could see him.

"Look!" it quacked, flapping its wings. He wasn't sure if it was talking directly to him or just stating the obvious.

He looked. His vision panned forward somehow. Closer and closer and closer. It was the elusive gabite Lance was seeking and was secretly rivals with. Its blue and red scales were shiny in the cartoon sun. Beady, yellow eyes were narrowed. In his hands was a shotgun, cocked and pointed toward the wide-eyed civilians on the ground.

"Get out!" it snarled. "You shouldn't be here! Any of you! Go home!"

Where was home? He felt sadness overwhelm him as he stared at the gabite, staring at the sharp points on its back that stood out so threateningly against the calm, two-toned blue of the sky.

There was a loud CRACK! The pokémon began to scream and run around as more wild shots were fired. Lane couldn't see any of the shots being fired, or smoke, or anything, and he didn't join in the panic. As soon as he turned his head to the right, there was the psyduck. It was dead. No blood, though. He couldn't imagine a pool of blood. That's too much. Lane knew he was dead though, the way it looked so endlessly into the sky filled with fluffy clouds. The characteristic "tongue-out-of-mouth" was in place, a sure cartoon sign that the psyduck was gone.

More bodies hit the floor. Still no blood. Too much to imagine.

"Get out of here!" was the most predominant scream. "Anywhere but here!"

Lane looked around again. Near and far were bodies. Where could you run? Nowhere. He could find you anywhere, that deranged gabite. Bodies lined the exit. Bodies decorated the plaza, the entrance of the department store, in alleys, in open daylight. But he couldn't find him, Lane. He wasn't being shot at. But as a flaffy fell in front of him after being shot in the back, baaing and gasping at his shoes before it died, he couldn't figure out why he didn't run just to avoid the horrific scene. He guessed he didn't know the way out. He wasn't from Goldenrod. Maybe he couldn't run. Ghosts don't have feet.

Then how did he have shoes ...?

He missed something because everyone was cheering, and the gabite was gone. All the bodies that littered the ground disappeared, and death was replaced with dancing. Lane turned his attention toward across the street. Lance! There was Lance, the greatest dragon tamer in Kanto–no, the entire world! He was standing across the street, gripping his arm. Lane didn't move, just watched, as his hero slowly lifted his hand. Drops of blood rained toward the concrete. His hero's hand was soaked in it. Lance cringed and tightened his grip on his wound, slowly sliding toward the floor until his knees were curled up to his chest. He was hurt, obviously, but still alive. Something was just wrong with his arm. Maybe he got shot.

And then came Lina, that silly, bumbling pichu that ruined all of Lance's plans (though meaning well, of course). She noticed, with her head cocked to the side, the hero in pain, particularly in the arm region.

"I'll help!" Lane heard her cry, and she hopped on top of Lance's knees, pulled at his arm that maybe got shot at, and twisted and pulled at it. Something cracked, sickeningly so. She brushed her hands before wiping them on her tiny frame; a job well done. Lane noticed the streaks of red on top of her once shiny yellow coat, but she didn't seem to notice – or care. Then she left.

There was a loud yell from Lance before he slumped to the ground onto his back, comical X's in his eyes. Like he died. His dragonair flew by and rested her long body against Lance's, nudging his face with hers. Shift to nightfall. Everything fast forwarded to night, like all cartoons have the ability to do. Crickets chirping. Dancing long gone – creatures gone, too. There was the silver, pale moon above along with a vast arrangement of stars. An airplane buzzed by. Lance was unmoving, and so was his dragonair, patiently waiting.

. . .

Dawn couldn't help but jump back as Lane's body twitched, followed by a sharp exhale, like a gasp. He squirmed a little, disturbing the sheets on his bed. His face scrunched up, his small lips in a frown. But then he relaxed. It was odd, like sleep constipation.

She swore he heard him talk, sweet Lane, but no one else seemed to notice. It was a whisper, floating in the airspace above before being swept away like dust. She stared into his face, drinking it in.

Dawn wanted to be a teacher once. In the end she realized that it was more about the human connection that interested her, so she quickly ditched those plans. But teachers, especially those who are called to that field by destiny or God or whatever, create bonds with their pupils. They get to know a little about their students – their life, their history. She liked stories. Teaching seemed like a good way to know other people's stories. Basic questions and answers weave stories.

What is Lane's story, Dawn?

An eight year old, she answered. An eight year old living in Canalave. He has a mother, a housewife, and a father, a sailor, and they live in a quaint one-story house in the suburbs. Blue eyes. Black hair. Big ears that stuck out. A younger, skinnier image of his dad but with the cool blue eyes of his mama. According to his dad, he has a fascination with Lance. Somewhere along the lines he fell into some ... "sleeping spell" to use simple terminology.

Meaning?

Think about it. If he's eight and into Lance, it must mean he has some sort of interest in pokémon. In two years, he'll be able to register as a trainer. He must be excited about that.

A solid household in the suburbs ... that probably means a stable childhood. A mom that's a housewife indicates that she is quite invested in her child, which could translate into the mother being overprotective. His father would be seen as the less disciplinary one, seeing as the father is often out at sea. So there might be a more ... stricter element when it comes to Lane's and his mother's relationship while his relationship with his father is looser. A relationship you feel at ease with is the relationship you're more often to tell your secrets and truths to.

Life is kind of funny like that.

So a mother who may be overprotective, and an eight year old child who may be excited about becoming a trainer in two years, plus factor in the adventure-loving father, proven by the mere fact that the father is a sailor ...

That can't be good. Conflict. By no means disruptive, but she could see how it could make the household stiff.

"I know I already asked before, but do you mind telling us what Lane was doing the day before he fell into his slumber?" she heard Lucas ask.

A good question. Dawn found herself taking a step closer to peer into the sleeping Lane's face. She saw his nose twitch which made a small smile tug at her lips.

"He was playing at that old Harbor Inn with a couple of his friends," answered Alyson from the opposite side of the bed. One hand was holding onto Lane's hand, her thumb stroking the back of it. Her body position was slightly slumped.

Their shape, I believe, has more to do with the ... what is it called? The maternal, nurturing state of the chansey. They're able to hunch over, protect their egg, if under attack.

Definitely protective, she read through the simple body positions. But the loving stroke of her thumb was tender. Delicate. Sweet.

"I was walking home from the grocery store when I saw Lane try to climb through the window. Luckily, I managed to stop him."

"And later that night?" asked Lucas. She felt him brush up against her bare forearm accidentally, making the hairs on her arm stand on edge.

"He was playing in his room, pretending to be like Lance as he often does. I had Eldritch talk to him about what happened earlier," said Alyson. "He's more open with him than with me."

Knew it. Dawn held back a grin.

"We had a little talk, Lane and I. He told me something strange. I told you about it earlier," piped in Eldritch.

Lucas nodded. "Something in the Inn, right?"

Dawn thought about Lance. What a handsome man that Lance. But why would Lane like Lance? He had dragons and he was a heroic figure. Definitely something a little boy would look up to. Was she reading too much into it? Was the fantastic life of Lance was an escape from the drama of home?

She looked toward Eldritch and Aly. The two seemed comfortable with each other. Aly's other hand was wrapped around Eldritch's muscular arm. Maybe she was wrong. All pairings have disagreements but that doesn't mean a household in the midst of a breakdown. Besides, all little kids like to imagine regardless of the situation at home.

But why enter try to enter the Inn, Dawn?

To impress his friends of course. You could tie in the overprotective mother again, and most kids do the complete opposite of what their parents say in order to rebel but all kids do stupid things for their friends.

"Did he tell you about anything he saw? Any noises, smells?"

"Eyes," was Eldritch's answer.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"

"He just said he saw eyes."

Lucas turned toward Dawn. "Hypnosis?" he asked.

It flattered her that he was asking her opinion for once. "You told me that those who fall under a hypnotic sleeping state awaken in a few hours naturally," she replied, feeling ever-so-smart even if she was repeating what he said before. "You also said that it was highly inaccurate, especially if you factor in distance, the length of how long the spell was cast, and how long the prey was looking." She saw Alyson flinch near the end of her statement. Prey was for animals, for pokémon, and Lane was no pokémon. She bit her lip at her insensitivity. That wasn't like her. Too much analysis. Too much indirectness. Too much Lucas.

Lucas turned his head back toward the Eldritchs. "Do you know if Lane looked long?"

Alyson shook her head. "I saw him just when he was about to climb in. He couldn't have looked in for more than five seconds."

And there it was. She was sure of this time. "Watching ..." passed the little boy's lips. She was sure because everyone else looked toward Lane at the same time.

"That's the new 'revelation,'" Aly murmured, gripping her son's hand tighter. "He's been repeating something along the lines of 'Dar is watching me.' Maybe it was 'dark'? I was here the first time he said it – Eldritch was getting food–"

"That's when I ran into you, Lucas," remarked Eldritch.

"–And after he said it, his heart monitored started to beep like crazy. He calmed down after a while but it was still bizarre. And scary."

Dar (or Dark) is watching me. What did that mean? Dawn gripped her myths book tighter in her left hand. A dark type? A spirit? Maybe "dar" was someone. Dad, maybe? It sounded ominous. A warning of sorts. Maybe it was part of a dream. If you're sleeping, you're dreaming, right?

"Then I suppose our next step is to check out Harbor Inn." Lucas laced his hands behind his head. Dawn noted his body language. His right knee was popped out as he placed all his weight on his left and his elbows were pointed forward instead of toward the sides. It was a relaxed position, a contemplative position. Hands laced behind your neck could range from anything, though, from complete ease to high stress and frustration. She liked to think the former. Maybe he was finally comfortable with her. Maybe there was hope for this relationship after all.

"Maybe there's a pokémon lurking inside that is capable of using powerful sleep-inducing spells," Lucas explained to the parents. "Or maybe there's proof that Lane hurt himself on accident." It was a series of rapid-fire maybes, one after the other. You're not exactly sure if they're hitting or missing but all that matters is that they're being shot. Points are still addressed, even if they're wrong.

"He was hanging out with his friends the day before?" asked Lucas.

"Yes. Their names are Julie Edmund and Francis Miller. They go to the same school. Their homes aren't far from here."

"Maybe we should talk to them, too," he suggested.

"Maybe," she added. She felt like she added nothing in contribution. Her "maybe" was just to talk, really.

Dawn's eyes cast toward the window. Sunlight poured through the blinds, leaving horizontal streaks of light and shadow. She followed the path toward the adjacent wall where the light angled. The walls were painted blue, but there were drawings on the wall. Cute drawings of pokémon: dragonite, gyrados, wingull, pikachu. On the table next to Lane's hospital bed was a vase of flowers with petals that were starting to droop. The table was littered with trinkets. Toy cars. A bag of marbles. Pokémon cards. Empty pokéballs. They were lined up so neatly. The pictures on the wall were taped in straight rows of three.

Decorations, she thought as Lucas and the Eldritchs continued their chitchat. An association of the familiar, to make the hospital room more comforting rather than a place of fear. That's the basis of his parents adding Lane's drawings and toys to the room, she figured. But they were tidy. A sense of control. A desire for stability. Taking hold of the situation and having some sort of say in it. You may have put my child in here, but I have the power to make what his room looks like. The flowers? That's because all hospital rooms need flowers.

Someone had pulled the blinds up and opened the window. The cool ocean breeze entered, first in slow, tentative puffs than grander gusts that made the drawings flap. She shivered, strands of loose hair dancing about her shoulders.

"Ready?" Lucas asked, turning toward her.

"Huh?"

"We're leaving?" he answered slowly, followed by an inflection in his voice. "Where are you today?"

She blinked rapidly a few times. "Thinking," was her simple reply.

"Well, pack it in a to-go box. We have some research to do."