Lapis has been quiet since the announcement of the world tour -- quiet and elsewhere, far away even while her hands are working, sorting through towels, restocking essential oils, checking temperatures on the saunas. She's woven through people all day as though they're merely part of the landscape, never quite making connection or even eye contact.

Even as Oscar approaches her on break, her fingers are busy -- sorting, folding, and stacking washcloths just out of the dryer, the stack of them still warm and puffy soft. She doesn't see him immediately, not even as he pulls close; she's been in her own world all day and doesn't break through it now.