Anya didn't make it far from the jail before she had to stop and catch her breath. It was freezing out, and the combination of weak lungs and thin skin made Chicago in February a very bad place for her. She bent over, her hands braced on her thighs, and she wished for a sturdy pair of jeans and a thick, cable-knit sweater.
The voice in her mind, which was apparently from a story, told her to walk toward the scent of water on the air, and she did; there wasn't anywhere else for her to go, after all. She mentally cursed Esme yet again for not warning her about any of this, and she tried to collect her thoughts about it all.
Was she a story? Did the voice in her head belong to someone else? "Do you have a name?" she asked aloud.
You aren't like the others.
That didn't help at all, and so Anya just concentrated on her other new-found strangeness. As she walked, the thought things at the people she passed. They all looked confused - every, single time. Great. Like she wasn't enough of a freak as it is.
Once she reached the edge of a large body of water, she looked out over it, and she sighed. Now what? It was freezing, and she hugged herself tighter as she shivered and coughed. Then she sat down on the beach's edge, and she looked out at the water (which was too choppy and active to freeze over), the moonlight making her hair look even redder for all the darkness surrounding her.