At a twilight of your choosing, when Amanda is outside and alone, the silence of her solitude will be torn by the slam of wooden shutters against windows, of the wind blowing high through trees and shredding their leaves like wings from mayflies. The boughs creak, and as the wind tears through the street, it pushes at Amanda, hard at her back and her legs, cold in one breath, hot in the next. It's strong enough to propel her forward -- strong enough to knock her over if she cannot withstand the gale. The longer she stays upright, the harder it blows, until she is forced down. Whether she crouches, or drops to her knees, or falls bodily to the ground, it is not until this that the wind begins to slow.

The wind she breathes will burn in her throat, and there is the lingering sensation of touch to the top of her head, and her hair being brushed out of her face. A flock of dark-feathered birds take wing overhead; in their departure and the silence that follows, Amanda will have her boons.