Skinny gray stones in small gray mounds.
All around him, women are wailing and men are staring with hollowed eyes. Matty slips a gloved hand around his and holds on tight.
The shepherd's saying words and Ma ducks her head, hands clasped in a ball under her chin. Her eyes are squeezed tight and her mouth is moving in time with the preacher's.
The only color in the whole place is in the flower he tucked in his pocket before they came here. Nobody can see it, but he knows it's there. He can feel the faded yellow petals burning against his leg, melting into his skin and bone.
He closes his eyes. He doesn't want them to see the color come bursting out of him, like the scream that's wailing up through his belly only to be trapped behind his teeth.
The preacher's done talking and he feels his ma's cold hand come down on his neck. Matty tugs at his hand, pulling him away.
He opens his eyes and the washed-out hills flare in a sudden rush of color - blues and purples and reds - then quickly fade back to gray.