[ She takes her plate from him with a quiet thanks. Eggs and toast - not even butter - might be plain, but once she's taken a tiny nibble, she can't stop herself from real bites. There was food in the hospital, but every bite was another link chaining her there. This might be, too, but at the moment, it's a bounty she's not going to turn her nose up at.

God, she's been so hungry. She probably looks it, too. When she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, her scars healed but her face still thin and tired, it felt like looking at a stranger. ]

I don't know. But if we're from completely different years, that'd explain it. [ A pause. Somehow, it feels like a bad idea to explain why it makes sense for her to be dead. He doesn't need to know that. ] Even if it doesn't explain why you don't know they bombed Atlanta.