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There was a quiet, abandoned sewing factory in the southeast district of Destiny City, the area that was called Old City by its residents. Corinna and Dylan used to come out there together at night to watch the skies, waiting -- always waiting -- for their sign. The building hadn't had a roof in what seemed like decades, so they'd left their sleeping backs there, unzipped, one for a mattress and the other for a blanket. They stayed up late, talking or otherwise -- and they watched the sky, feeling safely removed from the rest of the world. Special. Different.

And waiting, always waiting, for her return. They had been waiting these past sixteen years -- it tried Corinna's patience.

Now Dylan was locked away at (detestable) Hillworth too much of the time, chained by their ridiculous curfews and lights-out times; Corinna was often left on her own. Even so, she came out to watch the sky -- her iPod was not good company, but it was a good place to have a nice, uninterrupted think, and there always seemed to be a good deal worth thinking about. Corinna checked her watch: 11:42. She had missed the last bus.

She turned on her cellphone, which obediently sprung to life just long enough to flash BATTERY LOW! at her about three times, then promptly died. Corinna's instinct was to throw the offending piece of machinery against the nearest brick wall and then kick it into little, tiny pieces of phone corpse, which she nearly did -- but then she caught herself, put her phone away, and tried to think about peaceful things for a while. After all, what would Ronnie say if she found out Corinna had murdered her own phone in a fit of pique? Definitely nothing good. So Corinna was tranquil, Corinna was relaxed, Corinna was -- was --

Was going to have to hitchhike.

It was too far to walk back, if she wanted to be home before her parents opted to call out the National Guard. If she made it back to the inner city quickly enough, she could hail a cab from there, but until then she was on her own. Corinna started walking, bag slung over her shoulder, sticking out her thumb carefully whenever a car went by, and decided to spend the time thinking about what her self-defense plan would be if the night ended in sexual assault or attempted serial murder upon her person. It was good to plan ahead.

As chariots went, Corinna had ridden in higher style than this before. The green van that pulled up alongside her was something straight out of a cautionary tale about people who drove vans -- all that was missing was a seedy-looking man explaining that he had lost his puppy, little girl, and if you wanted to help him look for it you should start your search in the back of his van, all the way back there, that's right, behind those big boxes. It wasn't the sort of van that recommended itself highly to a hitchhiker.

Then again, its driver was a different story -- young, female, smelling (as promised) of Squeezy Cheez, nothing about Madison Heller or her car (ready for its fleet of ghost children, apparently) resonated with sexual assault or serial murder in Corinna's mind. Madison was energetic and talkative in a way that Corinna wasn't entirely used to, but she was also as safe a ride as Corinna was likely to get in the city, for free, late at night.

Corinna gave the taller, deep-water-haired girl a high five that looked decidedly like it was popping her High Five Cherry (it was; Corinna was not a girl for fives of any kind except a perfunctory handshake). Then, with some difficulty, she clambered in the van through the open side-door, slid it closed behind her, and wiggled around the empty car seats till she'd managed to plant herself firmly in the only open seat available: shotgun.

"You can call me Cora," she offered generously. "I owe you for the ride -- but I'll pay you back. Do you really work this late on a school night? Or is the nacho cheese a recreational thing?"

Corinna might've normally found the idea of someone's forgotten pornography stash at least interesting, if not exactly hilarious, but she was distracted by Madison's question. "I am not a hooker. Do you understand me, I'm not a hooker. I have a boyfriend and we are very much in love and I don't engage in illegal activity. That's a very serious accusation. I'm not, under any circumstances, a hooker." She stared straight ahead, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was more than slightly overreacting, or to the fact that Madison was being facetious, or to the fact that she herself had levelled unfounded accusations at strangers before. It was different when she did it. She had the best interests of justice at heart.

She sat silently for a few minutes, other than a terse, "turn right here," or "you can take this all the way up to Coleridge Street." Then, crinkling her fingers into the folds of her skirt, she finally couldn't keep herself from blurting out, "Don't you think it would be dangerous? Pornography in your car? I mean, do you think the driver pulled over to the side of the road for his illegal activity, or just -- drove with one hand?"

Corinna did not laugh out loud. Flustered, she made a face like a fish underwater -- glub, glub, glub -- her mouth pinched into a shocked circle. "Oh," she said, not entirely sure how to reply. "Oh."

Her seatbelt spontaneously came unbuckled, which left her even more flustered than before. She looked down, trying to fit the metal clasp back in place while Madison drove, but it clicked its futility over and over again till Corinna began to think she'd have to ask Madison to pull the car over and let her get out. (Riding in a car without a buckled seatbelt was simply not an option, since it was illegal, even if she had no doubts about Madison's driving. As it was, she had at least one or two doubts already.) Finally, there was a louder click and the buckle caught again: Corinna let out an audible sigh of relief.

She did her best to catch up on the conversation. "I don't think I know your friend Paul," she said after a moment's attempts to recollect someone by that name. "But you can tell him I would never ever cheat on Dylan, not for one night or one minute or one nanosecond. Never, I would never. Anyway," she sighed, her tone descending from indignant back down to wistful again. "If you knew Dylan, you'd understand. There's nothing to want to cheat on. No offense to your friend, that's just how love is. Haven't you ever had a boyfriend?"

"As a matter of fact we will be together forever, unless Dylan finds someone he likes better than me. Not that he'll meet many people in that detention facility he's at.

"I don't think I like your attitude," she continued, like this was a perfectly acceptable thing to say casually to someone. "But since you asked, let's see -- Dylan's an artist, he's very talented. He's handsome, with silky hair and amazing, amethyst eyes and when he looks at you, you know he can see right into your soul. He's gifted, he's interested in just about anything. And he's sensitive -- do you know what I think your problem is?" (Being stuck in a car with Corinna Grant? The current need to be gagged with a spoon?)

"I think your problem," she said, gazing at something reflected in the side-view mirror, "is you've never had someone to really listen to you. You've never met someone who really gave a damn how your day was. You seem to be a decently good listener, so it's probably not your fault, either. Is that your friend Paul's defect? He never listened to you?"

What had been rather irritating and unsociable, but was really just Corinna Grant's standing state personality, suddenly flipped over into blizzard-like anger. "You know nothing about the lives that are depending on me, you know nothing. I would never let someone else take responsibility for my child, I have nothing but contempt for people who can't own up to the consequences of their actions. You don't know a goddamned thing about my responsibilities, or what I've lost, or what's been taken from me -- " Corinna smacked the side of her fist against the armrest of the passenger door. The van was old, and unharmed by her outburst. "You have no right to judge me," she said frigidly, digging around in her purse like she suddenly, desperately needed something to do (other than beat on the armored car that was Madison's van). After a moment, she angrily smashed on some lip balm. It smelled like cherries.

"You're speeding," she snapped, folding her arms over her chest and looking over at the speedometer. "Slow down, or else pull this car over and let me out right now. I'm not being complicit in your bad acts."

"I don't have a mother," Corinna brushed off matter-of-factly, without thinking about it -- which would have been rather baffling for Madison had she known that, yes, Corinna Grant did in fact most certainly have a mother. Not only that, her mother was very much alive and well, mentally capable, present, involved, and in all possible ways seemed to be a well-adjusted image of a mother as they were usually expected to be. She taught fourth grade at the elementary school. She definitely existed.

But Corinna seemed to be appeased by Madison's outburst of honesty -- she loved honesty in a way that was usually reserved for Cinnabons. It soothed her.

Corinna had no concept of her ability to interact with people being a gendered thing. As far as she could tell, people of both genders were equally capable of trying her limited patience, and she was equally good at being unlovable to both men and women. Madison's discomfort was lost on her.

"Maybe your mother just has unreasonable expectations," Corinna ventured, giving the problem serious thought. "Are you on the wrong side of the law?"

Corinna nodded. "Yeah, this is me." She pulled her things together on her lap, then tried the passenger door -- only when it didn't budge did she remember having gotten in through the backseat slider. "Oh, right." She unbuckled and then wriggled awkwardly out of her seat -- paused -- turned back. She leaned in towards the bottom cushion of the passenger seat, trying to examine it for any tell-tale stains, her eyes betraying a squinty mix of horror and suspicion.

"You did a good job of cleaning this," she decided finally. "It's a good car. Your hard work shows."

These mystifying compliments relayed, she backed out of the car, past the carseats for the ghost children. Corinna stopped by the driver's side window, which Madison rolled down (it worked on a hand crank, which was probably why it still worked). "Thank you for the ride," she said. "I'll pay you back. Do you know your way back home from here?"