For the first time since I got to this century, I pull out my sketchpad and pencils and draw. I like to say that I'm pretty good, too. I sketch my room, the view from our apartment of Central Park, even a few of my friends. On the flip side, I also sketch our little group, some of the ruins from the temple, and the ocean our campsite is near.
"Not bad," I hear from behind me. I turn to see Sokka looking at my drawing of the volcano that housed the prison.
"Thanks," I smile.
"Is that the Boiling Rock?" Sokka asks. "I can't even see the gondola inside."
"My friends back home say I have the gift of taking something horrible and making it beautiful. I guess this reflects it." I sit back and look at my sketch. You can see the resemblance to the volcano, but it looks completely different—no cable, no prison, no steam.
"Okay, now do one of me," Sokka says as strikes a 'heroic' pose.
I laugh, but get to work anyway.
"So where did you learn to draw like that?" Sokka asks.
I shrug without looking up. He has the strangest arm shape and I want to get it just right. "It just came to me. My mom would say that when I was younger, I would pick up my finger paints and go to town on our walls. She swears that I painted a perfect skyline of New York."
I'm so wrapped up in my drawing that I don't even notice the sun sinking lower and lower until I can't even see anymore.
"I like it," Sokka says holding the picture up to his face. "Thanks, Starr."
I grin. "No probl—"
I'm cut off mid-sentence by my pager buzzing in my pocket. Sokka tilts his head as I take the buzzer out, but before he can say anything, I wave my arm and stop time.
Then everything goes black.