Seems she's running, and probably has been most of her life. Days spent substituting reality and compressing time chemically, and during any short stretches of accidental sobriety, re-enacting her internal civil war by going through uninspired motions of sex and throwing up the jizz of the trucker that paid extra. All to end each day with head on pillow clutching an orange tube like a baby bottle for enough assurance to fade off to sleep before it starts all over again - such that days follow days, and years are meaningless.

But what - what's she running from? I can't quite put my finger on it. At least, not like daddy can.

"Papa? Is that you?"