Room 218, Sunday Afternoon

Just a few months ago, Karla would have fired off a text to a bunch of people, saying something useful like Hobart's killing all the B Widows. Going to stop him. Hugs & kisses, K and run off into the wilds of Glacia with no plan but a burning desire to stop the bastard in his tracks. But that was a few months ago--she'd learned a few lessons since then.

And one of those lessons was 'you do not simply text you friends when running into danger.'

So rather than making Ender and Emma sigh defaulting back to old habits, Karla had returned to the island, placing a number of handwavey calls to people letting them know she was back and needed to talk to them before she left the island again. See? That was like a step in the responsible direction.

Besides, she had to pack up most of her clothes. She wasn't sure how long she'd be gone for, but she she doubted it would be measured in days--probably closer to weeks or even months.

What a sobering thought.

[Door and post open! Also, if you thought you got a call, you did! Note to squirrels: Karla and Tony's conversation about Peter is all NFB, please!]