A tiny bud of possibility tried to sprout within her, but she tore it up before it could take hold. She used to do that in Ratcliff with the little dandelions that tried to poke their way through the dirt and cracks in the road—pluck them and dig around to pull up their roots. It hurt too much to see them struggle to bloom in such a despairing place, where they would only wither or be trampled under passing feet.
