This isn't quite how these scenes are supposed to go. Rose isn't above accepting the living's pity, and she can't deny it now; if the twilight won't have her, then this is what she needs to do. Hell, she's already doing it: sliding into the passenger seat and taking the coat with soft but sincere thanks, feeling mortality settle into her limbs as she pushes her arms through the sleeves. The upholstery is warm beneath her — the car, like its driver, inclined towards sympathy — and it begins to thaw a little of the twilight chill out of her bones.

But she doesn't do lost, is the thing. It sits a little too close to 'pathetic' for her liking. She's supposed to know where she's headed, or seem like she does... but there's no scent of lilies and ashes on the wind, no sense of direction from the ghostroads. And while 'Darrow' sounds like it could be anywhere, she can't say she's heard of it.

"I'm Rose," she says, managing a smile, trying to claw her way back into an approximation of confidence. "Does the car have a name, too? She's pretty enough to deserve one." Loved enough, is what she really means, and she briefly rests her fingertips on the polished wooden window frame.