As far as homes went, Sweet Pea was pretty tiny, but doubtless nicer than plenty and definitely better than none. Despite the small size, though, she hid a lot of clever nooks and cubbies for storing America's clothes, her shoes, and the dozens of little items she invariably picks up whenever she stops at a place for more than a couple days. And, a few things from even before her trip began, and this is the box she went to after returning from the Other Place, dry but still smelling like a rainy graveyard in the best way possible.

For someone with a fairly cavalier attitude toward the dead, not to mention the past in general, America Jones is sentimental. She covets little memories and hoards their tangible artifacts like a miserly dragon. But maybe it's not so odd for a girl who so wholly accepts the past is done and gone, to cherish the remnants left behind. She has, after all, been left behind so many times. Having a piece of that old reality to touch and tumble over her hands, perhaps it gentles the edges of Now's reality and the empty spaces left by those no longer in it.

There's been a fair number of treasure boxes in America's life, and most are still down south, in Prudie's house and Junior's basement; in Malby's ever changing series of offices, moved along with same sense of importance as his case files and beloved pulp novels. There's a large jar in Travis's workshop, full of feathers and little bones, things she found and brought back to him to see and admire and clean and keep for her. There's a good dozen tin boxes hidden around Dunstan and it's forests and parks. America was a girl who loved secrets, who loved her treasures and had a knack for finding places to hide them.

The treasure box she pulls out from under the booth's seat comes in the form of a battered tackle box. There's jewelry from little roadside stands, one a piece from the recent art festival, made by a student whose genuine enthusiasm and warmth for each piece shone through in the pendant's smooth wood and bright resin. There's small rocks, some colourful, some labeled with masking tape and a sharpie. There's a whole little drawer of them from Wyoming, and she pulled this one out first, because she nearly always did. There had been something about that place that felt like home, despite not having any family there, no friends except the ones she made during the month she'd stayed there. There was a certain longing that pulled at her chest a little as she ran her fingers over them before shutting them back.

They had meaning, but in the scheme of things, she couldn't say they were important to her. Maybe to another her, to one who had never been in that accident, to one who had left Ashdown and decided to go back to Wyoming and explore the feeling those mountains and desert plains had instilled in her. For this America, however, they wouldn't do.

There's feathers and teeth, and...

Something was missing.

Rocking back on her heels, eyes narrowed, America crouched before the little box and tried to figure out what wasn't there, amidst the orderly chaos of her treasures. The last time she'd had it out had been...had been... Her eyes fell back on the little wood and resin pendant. The art festival. The morning after it, to be more exact, as she'd sorted through her canvas bag, still feeling warm and satisfied with how things had gone. Mr Bitterberry...

Mr Bitterberry.

The bluejay was not unlike the girl that borrowed his eyes. He had a penchant for hoarding little treasures too. Had, in fact, given America a good case of exasperated sighs and giggles when he'd landed on Taym's window sill, one shining earring dangling from his clawed foot. She hadn't taken it from him, of course. Partially due to the don't ******** with my s**t gaze he'd given her. Mr Bitterberry was not quite a pet, really. Not a people as much as Gloom was, but definitely not a pet. Trust and boundaries felt like a thing to be earned and maintained between them. They spent nearly every day together, and with certain realizations about using his sight in the Other Place, she hoped that part would soon become as easy at living together was proving.

Theft of her own property, however, was another thing.

He thought he was clever in his hiding places, and he was, but she was better. The small tree at the west end of the campground, where she had laid down by Taym's knee and taken flight through the jay's eyes held two nests. The one people could often see him in, preening and calling out and warning other birds to <******** off, and the one right behind it, a little below. If one really noticed it, most would assume it was just a sloppy continuation of the first. But if you looked at the right angle, you'd see the glinting little collection of soda tabs, gum wrappers, and stolen jewelry.

Bringing her little step stool out, the jay called down curiously as she approached. In alarm when suddenly she was nearly at height with its branch. Talking to him quiet and slow, America held up a small handful of items for him to look over, a bracelet made of folded starburst wrappers, a ring sized for a child, a thimble shaped like a frog. Intrigued, Mr Bitterberry hopped onto her wrist and began inspecting each, one by one. With her other hand, America lightly prodded the grass and twigs covering the second nest until ah, yes, there is was. Careful not to disturb anything else, America held the plain stone brooch out for him to see.

The bird stilled, claws tightening over her skin, enough to hurt a little. And then he nipped at the thimble once, turning it over so he could grab the edge and carry it back to its own little treasure stash.

Sighing in almost pathetic relief, she explained out loud, despite knowing he probably wouldn't understand most if not all of what she was saying. "It's important, okay? In the right way, at least I think so. It was Prudie's. She left me near everything when she died." She paused, and clarified, lest he make the assumptions she had guarded herself against for years. "Not cause she...liked me, or was proud or anything like that. And that's okay! But because I took care of her in the end when she couldn't do for herself, and...and, well, she wouldn't have liked...dying...on another person's charity, understand?"

The bird, having safely deposited its half of the exchange, watched her with shining hazel eyes, stern mirrors of her own.

"Well, so this was kinda mine anyway. But they put it on her, when she was getting gussied up for the funeral. I didn't even like it, haven't worn it since. But it was mine, and I was angry as anything at her. Mad that the dead got stupid ********..." her voice had grown low and heated, and maybe she still was angry at the old woman, even now, "...parties for people to cry over a ******** corpse and pretend she was nice. She wasn't nice! There was a big ********, line of people, to go look at the dead body in her makeup and Sunday dress. They perfumed her, and god she'd have hated that. Tarted up like a whore was what she'd have said. They let me go first, though. Gave me the longest. And when I bent down to kiss that cheek, nobody said a thing when I took the brooch and left. Nobody ******** dared ever mention it to me, 'cause they were scared. They were caught up in their own feelings about her and death and adding mine into it, well...that'd just be inviting another tragedy into their lives, right?"

Her hand closed over the brooch, and she straightened her posture, letting out a tense huff of air. "It's a stupid looking brooch anyway. Your new little frog is a lot cuter. So no hard feelings, okay?" Slipping it into her pocket, she climbed down and folded the steps back up. "And don't steal my s**t, at least," she smiled up at him, "not 'til I'm dead an pretty in my own coffin."

But America Jones was young and magic and near immortal in her heart, even touched by death as she was. A coffin service would hopefully, in her own shamelessly grinning words, be a lifetime away.