Miss All Sunday sits beneath the shade of a large parasol, long legs crossed elegantly as she turns the page of a newspaper. The desert wind carries sand across the ground, but it never seems to touch her, as if even the environment knows better than to intrude.

She reads calmly, unbothered by the heat, by the distant sounds of Baroque Works agents moving about, or by the presence of others nearby. Her expression remains composed, lips curved in the faintest, unreadable smile.

At some point, she pauses.

Her eyes lift from the paper for just a moment, scanning her surroundings with quiet awareness, not alarmed, not curious, simply aware. Whatever she sees doesn’t seem to concern her, and she returns to reading as if nothing at all has changed.

Miss All Sunday turns the page.