It is currently 23:03 Pacific Time on Sat May 21 2005.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 50 degrees
      Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      east at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.01 and rising, and 
      the relative humidity is 89 percent. The dewpoint is 47 degrees 
      Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (90% full).

The phone rings sometime Saturday evening, a little before dinnertime.
Rina answers after several rings, her voice quiet and hoarse. "Yeah?"
"It's me," says Thomas Grey, his voice rather flat. "You all right?"
"No," she says dryly. "What happened?"
"Found you passed out at the fountain with a needle-mark in your arm." Dull
      anger creeps into his voice. "Morphine not good enough anymore?"
Her voice sharpens. "*What?*"
"...You heard me," he says, after a pause.
Rina swallows. "I was with someone," she whispers. "Someone I trusted. I didn't
      think she was--" She lets out a breath sharply. "Jesus. There's a lotta 
      shit you can get from a fucking needle. God DAMN it." Even the anger is 
      weak, a shadow of what it ought to be.
Silence ticks by on the other end of the line. "...Didn't see your jacket
      anywhere, by the way."
"Fuck," she whispers. "Fuck. I'll-- I;ll be right back--" The distant noise
      that follows a moment later might be retching, muffled by the poor sound 
      quality.
Grey, back in his room at the safehouse, lies back against his pillow and
      stares at the ceiling as he waits, patiently, for her return.
"Sorry," she says hoarsely, not much later. "Christ. How the fuck do people get
      /addicted/ to this shit?"
Grey grunts. "Take another dose, and the sickness goes away." He adds, "Might
      want to steer clear of the morphine for a while."
She takes a shuddering breath. "You think it was H, then?"
"Just at a guess," is his flat, tired-sounding response. "Not as fun as Mr. E,
      I imagine."
"No," she says. "I'm gonna kill someone." Another shaky breath.
"Want help?" The reply is automatic, like a dog pricking up its ears.
"Sure. Fuck. Yeah." Another audible swallow, and she says. "Sure as hell won't
      be tonight. But I'm gonna track this crap down to whatever asshole 
      lowlife drugdealer thinks he can--" She leaves the phone abruptly, to 
      retch again.
Again, he waits, Patient for her return.
"Where-- where was I exactly?" she asks after a brief absence.
"As I said. Found you at the fountain. Harbor Park. Alone."
Rina swallows. "Was I... placed, or... was there anything weird about-- what
      you saw?"
He has to think about that, and his voice has an edge of doubt when he answers.
      "You /could/ have been placed. Laid down there. I didn't see anyone else."
"Okay," she says softly, her voice restrained. "It's gonna take a few days for
      this shit to-- get better. Can you stay in real tight contact with me? So 
      I don't-- so I don't."
"How often do you want me to call?" he asks. There's a creak of bedsprings as
      he shifts his weight.
"I don't know. Whatever you think. I-- just come by as soon as... as soon as
      you feel comfortable with bein' here. The moon and everything."
Silence for many long seconds. "I don't trust myself," he says quietly.
"Not right now. Yeah. But--when you feel like you can." Her voice stays soft,
      hoarse with rough edges.
Grey grunts, the sound not quite a laugh, and if it was, there'd be something
      bitter in it. "When the moon's thinner."
"Yeah." She sniffs, and takes a drink of water. "Yeah. Whenever you're okay."
"Hnh. You're going to be waiting a damned long time for /that/."
"Right. Whenever you're willing to see me, then."
"...I'm sorry." Quietly.
"You don't hafta be," she says hoarsely. "You're not the one who's fucked up at
      the moment. Not your fault. Nothing is."
His reply is a noncommittal-sounding, "Mm." Then he says, "I'd better let you
      get back to resting."
"Yeah. I'm getting a shitload of rest over here," she says with acid sarcasm.
      "Suggestions are welcome, by the way."
"Drink water. Helps clean out toxins. Other than that... Nnh. Just ride it out."
"Great," she murmurs. "Well. I'll... talk to you in the morning?"
"All right," he agrees mutedly. "Try to get some sleep. Good night." And with
      that, he clicks off.