Allison doesn't roll her eyes, but she doesn't really pay attention to Diego either, except to notice the room over his shoulder is a little larger than the other two, three she'd passed by. And she does that with him, too. Passes by. Keeps looking through the doorways at the bedrooms. All of them are sizable. Not entirely the same shapes, but none of them are postage stamp small. No one will be relegated to a closet.

All of these rooms are bigger than the small spaces they grew up in, and had moved back into while they were back home for that week and half. It's so weird to remember, each time she does, that the house is gone. She doesn't care about it as much as she thought she might at anytime considering it before. But it's strange. Discordant. To think about it obliterated. The site of so much that happened. So much they'd done. (So much that had been done to them.)