She's done some cleaning up and the others are talking by the tree when she sinks into the chair beside Carl, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them, her chin resting on her knees. "Sorry the turkey sucks," she says, because it does. It's bland and boring, nothing at all like the turkey her mom used to make for Christmas, and she knows the rest of the dinner isn't much better. She'd tried, she really had, but Beth's getting to the point where she might have to admit that she doesn't know a thing about cooking.

Or maybe she's just no good at it.

"I know it does, so you don't have to be polite," she tells him. "My mom was always so good at this stuff and I knew she'd teach me eventually, but..." She trails off and shrugs. But eventually had disappeared the day her mother had died. Carl knows that. He knows it better than anyone.