At first, she's sure that she's imagining things. She's walking home from work, headphones in, hands in her pockets, and then she sees a figure out of the corner of her eye, hears a scream, and it's like her heart manages to stop beating and explode all at the same time. Harrow. She doesn't think. Doesn't hesitate. She just runs.

"Holy fucking God, it's you," she says, dropping to her knees, hard enough that she feels skin under denim scuff, feels her now healed knee-cap complain, her hands reaching for her necromancer's skinny shoulders. "Holy fuck who stabbed you?"