"Beautiful. Or, it was, anyway." Even crawling with walkers, though, there's something to be said for the flowers and forests they've traveled through, and the way the birds still sing to each other. The dead changed the world, but the world goes on. She gives Deanna a little smile. "And it's hot there. It gets gross in the summertime--so you'd rather die than sweat anymore. But I'd take it over snow."

She'd never really had it that bad, she knows--whenever they'd complained about the heat, Daddy'd bring up how the land had been theirs for a hundred-sixty years, and only air conditioning had only shown up for thirty of them. All the poor women who lived there in hoop skirts and corsets, they were the ones it really sucked for, not teenagers in cutoff shorts and tank tops. She shrugs, wanting to turn the question back toward Deanna. It's too nice a night to talk about walkers, and if she says much more about home, she'll have to.

"I never went to California." Which is maybe a weird way to say it, but she's never going home now--and even if she was, trying to cross the country would be a death wish. "Is San Francisco nice?"