Under the blazing sun, above the desert.
Nora Scott sat cross-legged on the dirty sleeping bag, leisurely gnawing on an apple while listening to April Thomason make noises more unpleasant than hers with a bamboo flute.
"..."
She suddenly could somewhat understand the troubles of Julian Linfield, Pedro Langley, Marcus Shaw… and the vast crowd she had tormented before.
That music could send anyone to heaven at any moment.
It wasn't clear how long had passed, but April finally took a break.
"Did you bring everything you needed?" April suddenly leaned in and asked.
"Hmm?"
Nora didn't react immediately.
"It's the gadgets your husband gave you, and some documents or something."
"No," Nora replied, "they're all in the box."
When she left, she just carried a backpack and didn't bring much. After all, only a fool would wander around carrying so much equipment.
