There's so little she still keeps with her from the old days; most of this, her mother managed to keep in storage. She knows he'll see the tape; maybe it will put him at ease, a little, to think of her thinking of him. Lining it up with her other peculiar treasures. Or something.

It's strange to pack all her things into the back of his car, mostly because there's a part of her-- too large a part of her-- that thinks, this is fine; she could leave without looking back, not really. The bits and pieces of art, the rest of her wardrobe, the appliances and furniture-- she could live without that. She doesn't want to ditch it, but she wouldn't morn it.

The firemen come and go; they do a walk-through, they take her information, they get a basic statement, and leave her with recommendations, with numbers to call, with a house that's still in large part shattered glass. It's about what she expected. It's fine.

And then they go.

The ride is familiar, and fairly quiet. She thinks it's not a bad sort of quiet. And when they pull up-- it's a normal reaction, it's just the familiar surroundings, her brain telling her body home out of a habit that hasn't quite broken.

"The place looks good," she says approvingly. He's been taking care of it.