#lcstslipper

Runs. Riffs. Not riffs. Runs. Patter songs in runs. No, not right. Fauna was walking down the street, lost in her own head. She did that. Often. Got lost. In thought. In physical nature. She didn’t know, sometimes, what got into her this way. She enjoyed, at times, the ideas of getting lost in her head. But not while she was walking down the street. Which is why her eyes widen when--

“Oh, goodness. Those look like a lot of packages,” she says, looking at the lovely young woman with her arms laden. It certainly looks like an outing the young woman has made. “Would you like some help?”