[The flames, the sight of burned and charred flesh is part of what drew Needy in and made it hard to look away. It tugs at an older memory, one really not so distant but made harder to reach by all the rawer trauma that sits on top of it. The night Melody Lane burned down...all those people, screaming...the smell...

The night Low Shoulder rolled into town. The night that it all began.]

Uh, no. [She swallows before she speaks, her throat tight.] I was working with the clay, myself. I'm taking a break.

[There's still pale brown wet smudge all over her hands. Working a pot seemed too boring, but she wasn't sure what she was shaping, what she was trying to make. She got angry and frustrated when it started to resemble a tree. She kind of hates trees now. Don't ask.]

I just wanted to see what you were painting. I'm sorry for interrupting you.