Work Text:
There’s dirt, not blood, under Dexter’s nails.
The sun beams down on the three of them. Hannah’s hands dig through the soft garden soil with ease.
She’s gentle, patient with him and Harrison as she guides them through the process of planting the flowers.
Orchids, sweet as memory.
Dexter’s eyes snap open. Unshed tears blur his view of the log cabin roof above him.
Everyone wants an Argentina.