She watches his movements, but doesn't follow, turning her own crane in her hands. The silver paper catches the light along the fragile length of the neck. The river will dissolve it, wash it away.

"Could I keep it?"

This is a strange impulse, really -- she's never owned anything until her previous world, and even then she felt no impulse to collect. But here . . . there's a place for storage next to her bed, and there's nothing in it that's hers except for the poster she brought with her.

It would be nice to have a few things to call her own. Somehow, especially this -- something both pretty and something that she's made.

Not that she still intends to stay in this place. But for now . . . she likes the idea of something that's hers.