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After an absolutely horrid dinner date, Detroit found himself sitting on a ledge, overlooking the tall grass of Route 120. His feet dangled before him, barley scrapping against the ground, while he freely smoked with a cigarette. His sentret kept him company, or she had, until her ferret-like instincts kicked in. She was now running through the nearby grass, popping her head up and down like a whack-a-mole, running in zig-zag lines with no clear purpose. Detroit leaned back onto his hands and heaved a sigh.[break][break]

"Don't go too far," he spoke out loud for Helena to hear. There was no response, but he knew she had heard him with her sensitive ears.[break][break]

Remnants of the sun lingered in the purple sky, and with every passing minute, the shades darkened. Somewhere in the tall grass, Helena had raced off, causing the blades to shake and dance.