Ana nodded at Sky's information regarding the book. [color=00aeef]"That would work... Thank you!"[/color] She gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up, a strange and somewhat juvenile gesture she had developed long ago and never quite grown out of. Mya left, as Sky was evidently more than knowledgeable about the camp. Ana waved at her as she left. [color=00aeef]"Oh... bye, I'll see you later then."[/color] Mya had mentioned a fire, which sounded nice. Fire had always been a friend to Ana. It was warm, and bright, and something about it just felt like home. The smell of burning wood, the crackling of the embers, the gleaming coals, shimmering like some enchanted gem from a fairy tale... yes, fire was familiar and pleasant... not like water. Water was cold and deep. Water was dark and foreign, and the thought of what lurked in the dark abyss just beneath the surface terrified Ana to her very core. If fire was home then deep water was some strange, alien land: a bubbling, black, murky nightmare begging to pull the unsuspecting down beneath its depths. Ana shivered slightly at the thought. 

 After Mya left, Ana took a seat on her bed and began rummaging through the contents of her messenger bag. There were some clothes in it, which she quickly emptied out and folded with the most halfhearted of efforts. She was glad to have them out of the bag though. Its primary purpose had always been to carry her art supplies, and keeping anything else in it felt a bit wrong. After a moment, the girl emptied the supplies out on her bed. Numerous sketchbooks, many of which seemed quite old, dropped out onto the sheets. A handful of pencils rolled out as well, many of which were considerably worn down. Ana began flipping through her sketchbooks rather loudly, though she didn't notice the loud swishing as she flipped through the pages. There were drawings of a vast assortment of subjects: animals, plants, landscapes, one of a Cadillac that had belonged to her brother, a few of buildings, and several seemingly incomplete sketches of people, all of which had faces ruined with eraser marks, as though an accurate representation had been attempted again and again with no success until the artist had eventually just given up. Turning to one, what seemed to have been an aborted family portrait of four people, she sighed rather loudly with a touch of sincere, and uncharacteristic, disappointment.