"You know people here?" and Zoe doesn't mean just met, she meat people who have had an impact before, had punched their way in through Tilda's icy walls. Zoe doesn't place herself in this category of just showing up. Their meeting was not happenstance, a cosmic coincidence. Zoe had been sent.
There's no way to know Tilda is sorry about her past misdeeds or potent jabs, conveniently restoring life to her gaping, fence poked body. It isn't like Tilda has ever expressed remorse. Not directly. Zoe's alright with that. It feels as if any sentimentality she's ever had has died along with Kyle.
Kyle.
Elyk.
Kyle.
Elyk.
And so it goes on and on like an echo. Memories. Smiles. Love. Back and forth in her mind until it finally fades and she realizes Tilda's spoken. Zoe nearly misses the turn but drifts in, fishtailing as she rights her surprised Honda who's practical nature isn't used to unexpected joyriding.
Zoe tosses the half-smoked cigarette out the window, but even in her gloomy state, she makes sure to keep America beautiful by putting it out with a flash of magic. The tiny bonfire spazzing out paper and tobacco until its a pile of ash on the cement behind them.