Anora startled at every small sound that floated to her, and her attention snapped to every wave of the leaves or grass as a gentle wind blew through it. Anxiety made her muscles tense and put her senses on high alert, expecting to see some horrific creature or flashing blue and red lights emerge from the road. Not exactly conducive to sorting out thoughts, but she did her best.
	Though she knew she should keep her attention on her surroundings, she pulled her sketching materials from her backpack. Drawing was one of the few things that could always calm her nerves and settle a racing mind. Which was exactly what she needed.
	She flipped to the first blank page, the page she had torn the corner from. Taking a deep breath, she removed a pencil from its case. She closed her eyes for just a moment, trying to focus on her desired scene.
	She put pencil to paper and began. Though she often glanced up from her work, soon, a rough sketch of the scene from that morning’s lucid dream took on monochromatic form. Massive pillars surrounded by bones, grinning skulls peaking out in places. A giant’s hand, fingers curled, readying to grasp the terrain around it, a few bones soaring through the air from its sudden emergence. The faint outlines of mouths covering the hand’s skin, blood dripping from their parted lips.
	She had begun to add solid details to the hand when a rattling noise made her jump and nearly tumble over the rooftop. She dropped her book and pencil as she hurried into a half-crouch, careful to not lose her footing. The book, laying open to her most recent artwork, slid down the slant of the roof before catching on a warped shingle. The pencil rolled further, stopping where one of the flat portions met the roof’s slope.
	Black-speckled-purple teased her hands. Its golden sparks buzzd in preparation to go on the offensive as it sounded like someone was trying to break one of the windows. With the windows themselves mostly blocked by the roofing plateaus above them, she did her best to guess which one. Deciding on the one she had come through, she focused on it.
	She heard the window slide violently open. She held her breath, waiting. Her electrified mist increased, swirling around her hands and spiraling over her arms.
	Darsby’s hushed voice reached her from the window she had chosen. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as his head poked into view. Relief because it was Darsby, not a headhunter, and that, contrary to what his body had indicated, he was very much alive.
	Her magic dissipated and her muscles relaxed as she returned to her place against the chimney, her backpack leaning against the side next to her. She looked from him to her sketchbook, but then had to do a double take.
	He stepped easily over the rooftop, his form much stronger than she had yet to see it. The sunlight shone through part of his short hair, igniting its pink strands. If she had not known better, she would have said the man walking toward her was an entirely different person.
	A smile quirked at her lips at the almost comical looseness of the plaid shirt. She cocked her head, her brows furrowing as his stride turned almost uncertain when he neared.
	Realizing what caused the change, she hesitated. Part of her didn’t like the idea of him being so near her without knowing if she should be worried about him killing her or not. But something about him seemed… [i]different,[/i] and not just because of his recovered body and hand-me-down clothes. She couldn’t see the Darsby from the hospital deigning to sit next to her on the rooftop.
	She took a breath and scooted over to share the chimney’s space. She reached for her sketchbook as he sat, its corner just barely in her reach. She leaned back against the chimney as Darsby spoke.
	She snorted a laugh at his question, unfazed by his tone.
	“Seriously?” She rested her book on her knees and raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m peachy, thanks,” she answered, her voice thick with the sarcastic lie. “Nothing like being left with a corpse, news that something wants your head, and no explanation. Always a highlight of the day.” She sighed, looking him over. “But [i]I[/i] should be asking [i]you[/i] that. Looking alive suits you better than looking dead.”
	She couldn’t help glancing to the gun shoved in the pocket near her. Reminding herself it wasn’t loaded, she looked instead to her newest drawing without really seeing it, keeping a peripheral watch on him. She let the tingle of her powers race just out of physical existence, ready to be called upon should he decide to turn on her.
	She absently used her thumb to smudge the shadowing where the graphite wrist met bone gravel. “If you’re well enough, does our deal still stand? I swear,” she looked to him and jabbed a finger toward his chest, “if you count that as one of the questions, I’ll push you off the roof.” The attempted menacing look she gave him only accentuated the emptiness of the threat.