A Spider-Web Cracks In Front Of Her Face.

The burst bird slides down the glass.

"I'm supposed to tell you that the reason we left is not because we wanted to or they wanted to, or what we're about to do needed us to," she says.

A suitcase of empty plastic bags sits next to me, covered in stickers of American independent record labels.

I tell her, no smile, we're almost out of food.