The ride down (up) to the police station is cold and miserable, with Officer Chuck blasting the Eagles. At times he sings along. Bastard.
Nina is sitting there like a block of wood. She�s frozen up, missing Andrew, probably. I feel bad for the kid, but I barely met him. Nina is alive. I tug on her sleeve, gently and ask if she�s feeling OK, or if she�d like to talk, or if she�d like me to find her paper to draw on, or write on or something. She is silent. I say that it�s a pity that she doesn�t have a method of release here, because I know that she likes to get rid of feelings that way. I sound like Dr. Phil. She snaps, suddenly, slamming her feet off the seat and onto the floor.
�Don�t delude yourself into thinking that I�m some starving, heroic artist. It�s not good for me or for you either: my stuff is crap. Andrew could finger-paint on the New York Post and it would come out better than anything I�ve ever made.�
After this explosion, she settles back into her former position, legs twining guiltily around her body. Officer Chuck has twisted around in his seat to witness the drama, but I am silent as well. I can�t even begin to formulate a response. The Eagles are strumming inanely. I want to die.