“Don’t you want a cellphone that really calls home,” she thinks, gnawing the annoyingly biteable piece of skin creeping up the corner of her cuticle. 

The frown she just had still lurks, though it has eased. 

Age does that. 

Across the void another mind is twanging, like an old banjo. 

Hunter swings his legs over the bed. 

He once read about the Tokolosh and loved the idea of a bed on cans. 

“Not beer cans… cans none-the-less,” he mused, wishing to get a whiff of the paint. 

Something to look forward to – not the day. But paint. 

Painting the town red.