[To dying, to fate, to anything at all? It doesn't even need a qualifier; he doesn't have to specify what she's asking about, because Henry Creel is far too discontent, too angry, to ever feel resigned.]

Never. What's the point of anything, otherwise?

[And yet it's spoken with a smile, as always, and he tilts his head slightly, and indicates with a hand to an empty patch of earth next to her.]

If the little weed would move aside slightly so I can tend to the plants?

[She must be new, he thinks. He's not seen her around, wandering here and there throughout the settlement.]