The world is oil and rust. Screaming metal. Grease. A far cry from the monastery's quiet gardens. A sedan rests upon cinder blocks — upon gravel, in turn — in front of Thea. No wheels, no mirrors, no windows. Body eaten by water and rust.

It's a ghost of its former self, draped in metal like a tattered bedsheet. A ghost most unwilling to part with what little it has left. In other words, all its doors are rusted shut.

Thea jams her crowbar into the passenger-side one and pushes. Metal creaks, groans, and whines. Ears protest; nothing changes. Frustrated, Thea throws herself at the crowbar a few more times. "I'll eat my — ugh — whole butt — guh — if this thing has a — gah — working radio!"

Snap.

A shard — metal, by the sound of it — plinks off a nearby pickup truck and the sedan's door bursts open. Before Thea can think, she's falling. Forward, onward. Driving the crowbar on with her full weight. Metal meets flesh; car body and crowbar and both sets of fingers in-between. Spots dance through her vision and white fire burns up her hands.

Letting the crowbar fall, she pummels the car with slaps and tucks fingers under her armpits. "Ow, ow, ow. He-ssh. G—gosh dang it." She slaps the car again, for good measure. "Meanie. Gosh, that hurt."

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"Everything working out well then?"

Thea's heart jolts into her throat, but settles as a familiar hint of yew hits her nose. She whips around. "Frank!"

Monk habit, case of beer under one arm, and gathered braids trailing down his back: it's him. Ever the same.

With a wince at still burning fingers, she snaps up her cane and starts over. "How'd you find me?"

He drops his beer to the ground and spreads his arms, inviting her in with a couple tweaks of his wrists. "Asked around, made a couple guesses. Mostly your old landlord. Natasha?"

Thea stumbles. "R-really? I didn't tell her—"

Frank closes the distance and envelops her. "Eh, come here. That lady knows too much, you know? About everyone living there." He holds her at arm's length. "Wouldn't stop talking once she started: never knew you lived across the hall from a Nobel Prize winner."

"I didn't. She makes up stories like that for everyone."

"Really, now? What was yours? Nothing she told me seemed out of place."

"It used to be. She told everyone I got kicked out of— out of the—"

A thought — a possibility — steals Thea's words. It's outlandish; unthinkable. Precognition? A landlord?

"What's wrong?" Frank says.

Thea shakes the thought away. "Oh, it's n-nothing. Let me go ask Elia for a couple chairs." She strikes off, but another thought sticks her in place. She wheels back to Frank. "You don't happen to know anything about car radios, do you?"