Elicia falls asleep on the ride home, her damp head propped on Winry's shoulder. Winry gazes out the window, but the long-shadowed verges and twilit roofs pass in a blur as her mind leapfrogs the present evening for the coming dawn. If I bleed Mrs. Hart's hydraulics first ...

Gracia reaches across her drowsing daughter and touches Winry's knee. "Leave tomorrow to tomorrow," she advises.

Winry looks at Gracia, then at her own hands, curled around imaginary tools. She nods, bracing Elicia as the bus swings around a corner, and pulls the bodice-ripper from her bag to avert temptation.