“Oh,” she said quietly, the word drawn out. “Nothing really. Just listening.” “To what?” she dared. “Things under things under things.” Her eyelids dropped in long blinks. “‘Locations and times—what is it in me that meets them all, whenever and wherever, and makes me at home?’” Eden stared, not sure what to say. The train rounded a curve, the brakes shrieking. Kristen blinked hard, the fugue seeming to end as her smile evaporated. Her eyes focused on Eden. “What?” she snapped, breaking contact, smoothing out the folds of her dress. “It’s a poem, Eden. You don’t have to look at me like I
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