"Oh, I don't have any doubts that you could hug it," Chase replied. "You're pretty huggable. I just don't know how the crab would react." He stood up, tired of being poked by random blade of grass, and looked up at the sky. It was getting later in the morning. He stretched, aligning his spinal cord and yawning, before squinting against the sunlight and announcing, rather childishly, "I'm bored."

Mia stopped to think.
Hugging a crab, no matter how huggable one was, would likely result in the loss of a finger or tooth. Hmm.

"You get used to boredom. It doesn't become any less antagonising, but it just gets normal after a while." She answered, undeterred.
There was a little satchel that she had hung on her wheelchair upon going out this morning, containing none of the important medical things of course, but instead, random little things. Spare paper, pens...

"We could draw stuff." She suggested. Mia only drew stick figures, but that just made it all the more fun.

Chase hesitated for a moment. He wasn't very good at drawing--but what the heck? He nodded his head in agreement, and waited for Mia to hand him a pad and a pencil. The notepad had been used before, mostly by him, but as he flipped through the pages, he started to find some of Mia's drawings, and some little blurbs in her handwriting. He smiled as he looked through them, before coming to one in particular that he couldn't quite make out. "Hey, Mia, what's this?" he asked, showing her the page with the writing on it.

Mia watched as Chase flipped through the pages, coming through her stick doodles. There were happy sticks, bored sticks, sad sticks looking up at buildings.
But when Chase pointed out the unneatly scrawled handwriting, she knew what she'd written, and guardedly locked her breath in her chest to stop a red blush.

"I'm... Not sure. Pretty sad when you can't read your own handwriting, huh?" She laughed. Flip the page, flip the page, flip the page. She begged in her mind, shrugging cluelessly.

Chase looked once more at the handwriting, trying to make it out. He gave up, though, and turned the page. "I have horrid handwriting," he commented as he turned to the next page, the first clean one and pressed the lead of his pencil against the paper. "Yours is a lot better, compared to mine." He made a thick, black line straight down the paper and frowned at it. "OK. Now what?"