“My granddad always called it being free-spirited.” Izzy glanced to him. She looked away as he continued, asking his questions, her expression growing sullen. She gave a dry laugh.
	“Show me one person who's life has been 'free of strife,' and I’ll give the guy an award,” she muttered. She ran a hand through the lose portion of her hair. “This place... [i]took[/i] someone from me,” she said bitterly. She exhaled heavily. “I’d think that you, of all people, would know that there’s really nowhere that’s truly ‘safe.’ Even the middle of nowhere.
	“On that,” she began, her voice still grim, now the one eager to change the subject as she placed her hands in her lap, absentmindedly trying to pick at her usual nail polish before remembering there was none. “Why’d you come [i]here,[/i] of all places? Got a thing for plains and cornfields?”