"Take care, mama."

"You too, kiddo."

You hang up the phone and take a deep, exhausted breath before you head outside. Not much has changed since you moved in and, to be honest, you don't expect it to. All you know is what you're capable of- the only thing you can control in life.

As you exit, you're met with your truck, a thin metal fence, and whatever's beyond that. Not that you can see it… but whatever's there, a lot of that is a mystery to you.

As luck would have it, one of those mysteries just moved in nearby.

Noticing neighbors move in is tricky to do from your vantage point, seeing as the nearest (and newest) neighbor lives approximately a mile and then some from you. From your place, it's too lonely to see another life around you without looking down the hill, and besides, it's nearly planting season. You're too busy to focus on them.

Still, you know you have to drive to town today. Maybe you'll see them.

You get into your truck, more a necessity than a fashion choice. The same could be said for your holey dirt-stained jeans, your white-and-soil T-Shirt, your denim jacket that actually looks clean. They may not be things you would avoid in city life or what have you, but you've never had the luxury of choice.

All you really have control over is whether or not you buy seed. Whether or not you plant them. Whether or not you grow your own food, like your parents or their parents before them. It's not control of much, but it's nice to have it.

The neighbors are on your way to town. The road is bumpy, but your head doesn't hit the top of the truck anymore. Town isn't too far away once you get on the main road, making you appreciate your prime location- close enough to not waste a tank of gas going to town, far enough for no one to bother you.

You pass the house. It's two stories tall, built like an old government building that has no business being here in the middle of these parched green fields in the middle of nowhere. It's stark white, a near-perfect square, with two large pillars in the center. You can't see the windows because of some nearby moving trucks (plural!) that have been up and down your road every now and again, but ever since your parents drove around here years back, you know they're in a perfect two-by-five row rectangular in layout and structure. Had Papa not told you that this was a remnant of the old town that once populated these empty fields, you would not be sure it did exist.

Faceless movers go from the trucks to the houses, so you can't see who lives there. You dare to look behind at the open truck beds, to see both are crammed full with more boxes than furniture. Gods, you can't imagine who would have that much in their name. You can't imagine what they would do with it all. You especially can't imagine who would own more things than furniture. Three quarters of what you own are furniture.

You realize you've considerably slowed down peeping at the trucks. As if being watched, you turn around, scowling, and keep driving.

A good couple of hours later finds you returning with a tupperware full of separated Ziploc bags of seed, and a few new garden tools you've splurged on. You need new hoes and shovels anyways. The newly occupied house is just ahead, and you note with a smirk that they've made a lot of progress moving into their new house- and there is still so much to do. You hope the movers are being paid generously.

You notice briefly by the doorstep a young woman- probably around your age. She has short faded black hair parted along the center of her forehead and emotional eyes that don't look at you. She's sporting a sneaky smile, a green lolita dress with white trimming, and a black round umbrella above her head. That's all you see before you drive on, but you realized you've slowed down again.

Probably to a crawl. A very obvious crawl.

You shake your head, just happy your window was already rolled down so you didn't draw more attention to yourself. Of course it already was going to be; after all, it's a hot day. Why was she holding an umbrella, then? Already, she seems different. Certainly from another world, where you assume everyone is dressed to kill.

Probably by making people's blood boil so hot that they implode.

Your mind returns to gardening, probably because you force it to. Probably you don't need to plant the seeds for a good few days, maybe a week or two, lest you rush into it and get a shit output. You try and think of when your folks would plant. Though this is your first season on your own, you've had about twenty seasons to practice. Ever since you could walk, you were helping your folks grow food. As small as your own farm is, it's still a better start than you could have hoped.

It's not enough, and you'll be damned if it doesn't get bigger, but you'll deal with frozen meat and loaves of bread for now, as long as you grow wheat and house animals later. Besides, you always loved animals more than people anyways- the hours you spent with your cattle and pets probably outweigh those spent with your fellow people by about ten. Your dream property would have plenty of them.

But that's later. First, you have to get through now.

You realize you're about to drive past home when you brake hard enough to launch the container to the front of the pickup bed. You cringe at the crash, but carefully pull a hard right. The seed veers slowly, but doesn't fall out of the Tupperware.

You park in front of your house, a suitably small ranch house painted in the same brown you and your parents built it in. You find yourself briefly thinking on the small white temple down the street, and the woman in front of it, umbrella-thing and all, but the thoughts die away with only minimal force.

You hope to never think on them again.