"Maybe," she answers, and as the word stretches out--and the silence past it--she knows it's not a maybe. Maybe doesn't compel you to collect garden gnomes or swipe decorative spoons from abandoned country clubs. All of that feels unreachably far off, separated by a greater chasm than a few months. But that doesn't mean it isn't still in her.

She hopes it is.

So she does right by Byerly and tries to think of an answer. And it comes back, as it often does, to music. "A guitar. If it wasn't so cold out here, I'd want a guitar."