She stares at the horizon as the car speeds along. The line of 
hills before her is the closest thing to a home she has ever
known. There, where the red bones of the earth were exposed,
her uncle showed her how to reveal the bones of the ancient
reptiles that had roamed this land in a wetter time, and helped
her clean, order, and wire the scattered fragments of her soul 
back into something like its intended shape.

She looks at those hills, and her heart soars to them. 
Something in her soul loves the height and the heft and the
age of mountains, and she doesn't particularly care if that's
the Scot or the Iranian or the Cherokee in her. She is herself
and none other. Her ancestors have only what power she chooses
to give them, and today she does not choose to give them much.

Harm is driving. She does not need to watch him to know how