1: Melissa looks to Julia, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Julia nods in reluctant affirmation.

2: Melissa’s hand now holds the gem.
Mel: What… is she?
Rhoda: The Black Dog, you mean?

3: Rhoda has turned away from them and is pulling a tea pot down from a shelf.
Rhoda: If you had asked me that question a hundred years ago, I would have struggled to find the words to really make you understand.
A scar in reality? No, that implies a grievous injury.
A virus or vermin? That implies an unnatural propagation of a natural entity.
Thankfully, you all eventually invented the perfect word for her:

4: Her hands strike a match.
Rhoda: Kenazil is a glitch. She is something that should not be.

5: Her hands are tending to wood inside the stove; she’s lighting the tinder.
Rhoda: She comes from so very, very far away. She was a mistake given form, and now she is here, where she does not belong.