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Who is this sassy lost child
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((Raina Rose continued from Demons Dance Alone))

Raina hadn't slept.

She had known this would happen, at some point. She hadn't brought any of her insomnia medication with her on the trip, because of course she hadn't. They were only supposed to be gone for an afternoon. The first few nights had been bad, waking while it was still dark and trying to lay still and quiet and think until morning. Last night had been awful. She'd stumbled across the bodies at the radio tower after storming away from the warehouse, and the sight of those two senior girls had been burned onto the back of her eyelids as she tossed and turned fruitlessly in her makeshift hideaway for the night. Sleeping outdoors was also terrible; she was glad nobody in her family had ever been a camping enthusiast.

So here she was, the past few days showing on her face and hair and clothes, groggy brain hounding her to keep moving. The sight at the bottom of the helipad was as bad as what she had found in the radio tower. The sight up top was worse. She had messed up while straightening her hair once, and the burnt smell had clung to the bathroom for days. The same kind of smell lingered around the charred pile on top of the helipad, only slightly lessened by the lingering damp.

Raina sat in the shadow of the decrepit helicopter to shelter from the wind, not trusting it enough to try climbing inside. She wasn't crying, but she was definitely sniffy, knees drawn up to her chest with her arms around them. "Biggest brain in Cochise", ha. Thanks, Johnny. Look at her now. She had no plan, no allies, and a grenade. She should have traded for Johnny's radio - at least she could try to fiddle with that and figure something out.

He hadn't followed. She wasn't sure if she was glad of it or not.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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Hemochromatosis · Helipad