She carries a canvas satchel everywhere with her lately, just in case the way Over appears again, just in case she turns a corner and finds herself in the rain. It's an old bag, a hand-me-down from Uncle Travis, stained and battered even when she was six and collecting every passing stone of imagined importance, every pretty leaf and feather. But it was sturdy, even so, and waterproof, even better. Once again, it's become a trusted companion for adventure and the bearing of treasures. Along with the pendant that even now, she considers Prudie's, the bag holds several bottles of ink, some sharpies, eyeliner, a small flashlight, a Swiss army knife of Very Good Quality, a paint brush, masking tape, and a bunch of small, empty jars. Meant to be used with spices, they seemed ideal for this last step.

It was not at all the assortment of items one would expect a girl like America to be carrying around whenever she left home.

Three days is hardly forever, but to America it felt like a small lifetime, every night her dreams taking her over to the Other Place. But she didn't have her bag, she didn't have a guide, she wandered and wondered and when she woke up she longed. It felt so close.

Walking home from Darlene's on the third afternoon, she thought she could taste rain on the air, despite blue skies. It makes her pause and close her eyes. "America Jones," she lectures herself, "you need to calm your s**t. Getting mighty ******** intense about..." There's a chill along her back and her eyes flutter open.

The cafe doorway she'd stopped in was...

Drawing closer to the door, the girl reaches out to touch it, palm lying flat against the cold wood. Licking her lips, America takes another step closer and tries not to get her hopes up. The chilled metal handle opens easily and there's a flash of blue feathers as Mr. Bitterberry takes the lead.

The cafe is a dim skeleton of itself, empty and long abandoned. Turning back to the door, America sees the rainy day outside, perpetually overcast and grimly quiet. Whatever had let her Over seems to have disappeared. The one in the elevator had gone too, she reminds herself, once someone had gone through it.

Glancing around the cafe, America lets out a deep breath that quickly turns into a pleased little laugh. She was here! She could finish, now, finally. Pulling out the paint brush and one of the little jars, America takes another breath and begins, thinking about dust and meaning. It doesn't matter where it's from, Gloom had explained, but somehow she can't escape it. Wandering through the cafe, America brushes dust into jars and labels them each neatly. She thinks about what a bit of dust might signify, other than poor housekeeping, her thoughts turning abstract and even a little playful.

Stop

There's a large old clock within the cafe, its hands still and door broken. She brushes a bit of dust of the dull metal of the old pendulum.

Hunger

The kitchen's cupboards are empty of any food, but there's plates. There's plates on shelves and even several set nicely, their cutlery dull with dust and age and lack of care. She brushes some dust of the plates and then collects some from the pantry as well.

Silence

There's a telephone by the host's stand, and when America picks it up there's nothing on the other end. Dust gets on her hand and nose, and when she wipes it off, she misses the bit left on her cheek.

Visitor

One her way out, America's eyes are drawn to her footprints, her steps clear on the dusty floor. Kneeling, she brushes the dust from around a print, right into a waiting jar.

Shelter

Outside, in the perpetual wet of the world, it's hard for much dust to collect, and yet, in the corner of a windowsill under a tattered awning, Bitterberry finds a small nest. It's snugly built between brick and a claw pot, bearing the remains of some flowers. Gently brushing a finger underneath, it comes away with a dusty smear and she thanks Mr. Bitterberry before collecting a fair bit of dust from the little nest, careful not to damage it.

Friend

With one last look at the cafe before moving on, into the town's rainy streets, America notices that her blue boy has begun looking rather grey. With a laugh, she coaxes him to her, and fondly begins to brush off his feathers. With a soft series of uncharacteristically sweet sounds, the jay allows himself to be groomed, bringing up his wings to further accommodate her and pouting distinctly when she's through. This dust, too, goes into a little jar, along with her gratitude at having him with her, helping and keeping her company while she tries her best.