Rosita nods, and considers that while she carefully navigates a fallen tree across the path, sure footed but still a bit off balance with one arm strapped to her torso. When she doesn't have to pay attention to that anymore, she considers again if she wants to say anything. It's not like she knows anything. She really doesn't, not here.

But she knows her life, so she takes a deep breath.

"My friend - Jesus. That's just what we call him, not his real name, obviously." He enjoys it though, and so does she. "We're just friends, mind. But friends... mean a lot more where I'm from than they used to. Everyone together in my community and his wouldn't even come close to breaking into triple digits, and not all of them fight, but he and I have, together. He and I've stood shoulder to shoulder on a firing line, caught dead to rights." It's a deep bond, one that has more trust than most marriages she remembers from the old world.

"He died, the day before I came here for me. I went to his funeral. I hammered a nail into his coffin, helped dig his grave, threw a handful of dirt back in. I had just started the process of remembering not to look for him at the gates, not to listen for him greeting us at the breakfast table, not to want to run something past him for his thoughts anymore. And then here I am, and here he is, like it never happened."