So much space dust, this stranger who knows her says, and she's getting so tired of the hard, sharp shivers thrumming down her spine. She takes a short, quick inhale, too shallow and brief to be calming, and a puff of smoke manifests on her shoulder.

She's not used to that, either, but that doesn't stop her from reaching on instinct to cup her fingers protectively around the tiny pink butterfly that's formed there. Light gleams off its multi-coloured wings, which are far too delicate for this temperature and this wind. One of them brushes her palm, gently.

"Whoever this man you know is, he's not the one I do." There's more patience, this time, even if it's never been her strong suit. "Because the man I know - the John I know - he's never done anything like that to me."

Not that she can remember, and isn't that the itch of it, scratching along the inside of her skull? The butterfly against her palm strokes her skin again, a pass like the flow of a silk scarf, like smoke should feel when you hold your hand over a flame.

"If I told you where he is, what would you do?" Her heart is speeding up. She wonders if the stranger can tell. John always can tell, these days. He thinks he's better at hiding it than he is. "If he did all these things to me, to you. How are you going to make him know what you want him to know?"