Ephemera laughs suddenly, hands resting on Chica's shoulders. She's breathing. She's going to be okay. Her eyes are half-lidded and there's a rattle when she breathes, like there's something broken inside, but she's alive. It's enough. "Your makeup's fucked up," he tells her, breathless.

God, she's alive.

"Lup, take a picture. I need this shit documented. The day she wasn't ready to model a fucking runway."

Chica wheezes.

Then, deliberately, she gives him the finger.