"It is. Our farm, it's--" She corrects herself. "It was everything you could want. We had cattle. Some crops."

The words come out half-hearted, but she tries to push through it. "Georgia has the prettiest flowers. Bluebells, chicory, Cherokee roses..."

And I'm never going to see any of it again. Beth tries to quiet the thought, tries to bury it under something else, but she can't find anything that'll muffle it enough. The quiet stretches out around her, empty and indifferent.