Niamh had been given her share of the world.
 
She had red canyon dust in her boots; She had desert sand in one pocket and ocean salt in the other. She had cactus needles in her palms.
 
Niamh had frost bite and calluses and blisters. She had the story of every journey, ever sight seen, stitched into the fabric of her skin. She had diseased waters in her stomach; had tribal body paint on her arms.
 
Niamh had bamboo, rain forest tree leaves, and prairie grass tangled in her hair. She had rust under her fingernails.
 
She’d run her fingers over almost everything, because seeing it with her eyes wasn’t enough. She wanted the memory of texture to go with images and smells and sounds.
 
Every city sounded different, every language rich. Every piece of bread she’d eaten tasted just as unique as the chefs who made it. Grass felt different on every continent.
 
But rain smelled the same. And dirt was the same everywhere because blood had been spilled on it.
 
Niamh had never been homesick because she’d never allowed a single location to mean anything. She’ll always leave and, while she will always look back with fondness, she’d never want to go back. That’s how her parents were. That’s how she was.
 
Well, that’s how she was.
 
It had been the closest thing she had to home. That was probably the reason she abandoned it so willingly.

The first payphone she’d come across that worked was halfway in the shadow of a dark ally way. Great. A cliché.

Niamh pushed a coin through the slot and pressed the numbers in a practiced way without realizing.

“Hello?”

Niamh swallowed a deep breath before she opened her mouth to answer.

“Ruby?”