Work Text:
In the spring, when the ground thaws, Rachel finally steps away from her desk. It's still cold, but she doesn't go far; she just leans against the old barn and stares out at the sprawling land of The Farm. There are signs of life out there: green patches in the winter-brown grass, a few stray flowers pushing up through the dirt. It reminds her of Susan, of how they met, of the garden they tended year after year, and she pulls her hoodie close around her, but it's not the right kind of warmth.
She leans her head back against the building and sighs, her breath turning to fog in the air. She blinks back tears as she stares up into the empty blue sky.
The door swings open, and Anderson's boots make a heavy, hollow sound as he steps out. "You all right?"
No, she wants to say. "We have a lot of land here," she says, "a lot of people. I think I'm going to dig up a spot, plant a garden. We could get some of our food that way, you know? It'd be cheaper. And the work... I think it would be good for us. Feel like we're doing something."
"We are doing something," he says, the protest gentle but firm. "You've been in that office for four days; you never sleep."
Rachel snorts because she's forgotten how to laugh. "Says the coyote to the, the... fuck, what even am I?" she asks, turning to look at Anderson.
"Tired," Anderson says. "Just... tired."
-
She buys seeds, but the envelopes stack up on the side of her desk, piling high next to her inbox. There is always one more family to find, one more refugee who needs papers, one more lead on getting Keith out. It exhausts her, but it keeps her going, makes her feel less guilty for being here, safe and alive.
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The CBC wants an interview, and she gives it to them on her third day without sleep. Even with everything that's happened, it's still the first time she cries on the air -- not sobs, but a steady trail of tears, running hot through her makeup, coursing down her cheeks.
She hasn't slept because her inbox is empty. She's on the air because no one is making it out.
When she gets back to The Farm, she starts digging, shoving a pitchfork into green grass, fighting her way through tangled roots. She's crying and she's sweating, smearing makeup onto her suit each time she wipes her sleeve across her face. Her shoulders ache and the pitchfork rubs blisters into her hands, but it's worth it when she sees the rich soil underneath, when she tears into the envelope and spills the seeds out into her palm.
She can feel the cool, dark earth through her pants when sinks to her knees, and she presses seeds into the soil knowing she will sleep tonight.