She doesn't usually like to reveal her thoughts, no -- or in some cases, has simply fallen from the habit -- but in that moment her features are bare, exposed, emotions chasing through her face. Anxiety. Fear.

Disregarding the question, she drops her hands, bringing them up again.

Again, nothing.

She's broken.

She's really broken.

A test of her abilities while Greg was gone had shown her things weren't quite right. That was what the boy with the yellow hair had come upon -- her wrangling the waves, them lashing into the sand in frustration as she failed to manifest her wings.

She'd told herself it was like her legs -- something that would come back given additional time out of the mirror. She'd told herself the crack wasn't so bad.

She'd almost managed to convince herself.

Her hands sink. Droop. Separate . . . and come to rest at her sides.

"It . . . should work." Her voice is small, suddenly too far away. It's almost as though she's telling herself more than she's telling him.