She was in a blue room. She didn’t know how long she had been there, or even where there actually was, but it was a silly question, anyway. She was there. A little girl of about nine was sitting on the floor, on her knees, at the far end of the room. Tika couldn’t tell what she looked like; the girl’s back was turned toward her. But she could see what the girl was doing clearly, even if she couldn’t see the results. She was painting something on the wall.
Tika walked toward her. There were no clocks, no windows. The silence was surreal, but soothing. The place had the ambience of an empty hotel; she sensed there were many corridors just out of sight, and many, many rooms. But she didn’t wander. She moved to within a few feet of the child, and stopped.
She admired her a moment, watching h
