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Nomi rolls onto the sideway outside the main entrance and you step outside into a raw and blustery autumn afternoon, the sort of New England day that looks like you're seeing the world through a dingy old window. The gusts blow your leather jacket around.
"Hey Stonegrowl!" Nomi says. "Hop on."
You jump on the journalist's bike pegs and they race out into traffic as if convinced that they, too, can regenerate from anything except fire and silver. They can't, and you haven't been a werewolf long enough to be nonchalant about getting hit by a truck, and your hands dig into their shoulders.
"Relax, it's only like five minutes away," Nomi calls back. You've noticed that they've changed their hair from white to green.
"You're not from here, right? What brought you to the Valley?"
"So your uncle Paul got you into adventure games?" I'm trying to steer the discussion toward what happened to him in the Nevada Desert.
"Why did you change your hair? I liked the white."
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