Yesterday, the sky had been the color of mercury and just as volatile. It's the kind of dry comment Jo would make over her beer if this was an ordinary sort of day, but ordinary days have been thin on the ground lately.

Her silence is the thoughtful kind. Her hand lifts to brush back the hair that the crisp winter breeze keeps trying to blow out of it's clip.

"Some days," she finally says, "we need the color of the sky more than others. Some days it's something to hang on to. Other days we don't even need to notice it."