(no subject)

[fuckinabucket]

[ Sally's cottage is tucked into a swath of isolated wilderness. At some point there had been a town, no longer then a single sprawling block; the kind of place where the Pizza Hut, Subway, and Post Office are all run behind the same counter by a person who has to keep changing his hat. Twenty minutes North along an unkept dirt road that twists too much is what remains of cottage country for the rich; one lonely building stubbornly built up by the unhandy scientist, walls patched, windows boarded, trip-wires strung about like spider webs.

The safe way through is marked, just like she said it would be. Scribbled notes of 'watch your step darling' 'abscond at your own risk' and 'don't fucking step here!!' are painted about, decorated with a few kissy-lips and occasionally, a chode.

Sally is out front of the small two story building, tending the small tidy garden strewn a few feet beyond her front door. The dusk doesn't convince the leafy fuchsia flowers to bloom just yet, but she's busy (or appears busy) checking on her yams, roses, and the waist-height bushes of little golden berries.

Her hearing is better than is reasonably should be; unless Ellie is making a special effort to keep her footfalls damn near silent, Sally should catch the sound before the sight of her.

The petite woman stands straight and brushes the dirt from her gloves, peering down the road that leads up to her demure homestead. ]

Someone here for a pick up? So many appointments, who knew The End of Our Time would be so good for business?

[ The shape of a guitar-case is not a common enough happenstance for the chemist to miss, so a spark of recognition crosses her eyes. ] Ah yes, my three-o'-clock interview with the potential babysitter! Glad you made it through all the hell and high water out there