Rose took the sweatshirt and donned it, pulling the hood up over her head. It was big on her, flopping over into her face, but, more critically, coming down well past mid-thigh. She let it shade her face as she stepped forward in tiny shuffles, each sending shockwaves through her chest.

"She isn't my friend," Rose added, because keeping the record straight was important, even when she could barely talk. "I just met her." Then the man, who was older than she'd first guessed, and had hair the same ashen shade as her own, proved himself to be knowledgeable as well as generous.

"But apparently she is your friend. Do you know what happened to her?"