"Holy shit," she utters under her breath, and not at the gun. She might loathe them but she recognizes that Frank's peace of mind can never be disentangled from access to an arsenal.

The case is scratched from a decade of drifting through thrift stores. Both the cover and the label on the disk are chiseled into her early memory. It's Intro to Angry Girl Stuff, an album she'd pick up for Kamala. It wouldn't have occurred to her to revisit it for herself. The track listing escapes her, then the first song starts to play and she can instantly recall that "I Think I'm Paranoid" will follow. Shirley Manson's voice possesses the same dream-like quality as it ever did, gossamer words floating above grungy guitar strings.

Her eyes close with the lightest sigh. "Now I'm definitely going to fall asleep." Within the first several tracks, she does, piling her scarf between her head and the window for a pillow. Her hand is returned to Rocky right before she fades out.