I already miss my home.” She sighs, and a fresh set of tears well up in her eyes. “I don’t really feel like documenting anything right now.” “What do you feel like doing?” “Honestly, I just feel like wallowing,” she says with a watery laugh. “Wallowing?” I repeat. I know the word, but you usually don’t hear teenagers saying it. “It’s what my mom says I do when I’m upset.” She looks out at the road in front of us. “I just want to sit here and wallow.” “Here.” I pull one earbud out and hand it to her. “I have the perfect wallowing music.”
