"Hi Nancy."

Abby's grip is brief but firm, and she glances at her palm at the mention of it, tilting the anchor into the light. Every so often it glints of its own accord, nothing to do with the overhead lighting. "Thanks. It's not a tattoo, it's — a long fucking story, actually." And she has no idea if Nancy is up for something like that right now. Though, presumably, she did come here for a book?

"How's being in some place other than Indiana?"