<strong>Emily Fitzgerald</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>:Paris, a public water fountain somewhere near a park<br/><strong>Tag</strong>: John<br/><hr/>Emily stares at John for a moment, and there's a fierce temptation to say 'yes,' to accept that another person, any person-- John, or Robert, or whoever he was now included-- could possibly fix this.<br/><br/>"I always thought it was so silly," she says, "how women I knew thought a man could fix things.  Like mo--" she bites off the word, reasserts her calm, "my mother."  She shakes her head slowly, looks off at a businessman shouting into his cellphone, watches a flock of pigeons lift off.  "I always thought it was because they were weak, and society taught them that a strong man would fix anything."  She laughs once, the sound resigned and soft.  "I suppose I was at least half right."<br/><br/>She reaches to take John's hand in her own a moment.  "Even if they are alright... you know, not corrupted?  What good could I ever do for them again?  If they have a foster home, they're better off than with a teenage girl bringing in their income, their drunken mother screaming from the next room, cigarette smoke turning their<i>Cars</i>posters yellow."  She smiles, a gesture that is as sincerely optimistic as it is sorrowful, "Without their devil-worshiping sister around.  Or dark<i>fey</i>coming after them."  Shrugging toward the sidewalk, she prepares to head off.  "That's what a visit from me would bring.  Cops and devils, if there is any difference."<br/><br/>With renewed pace, she bounds off toward the apartment.