"Thank you," she tells her, and every word is punctuated with gratitude. She's dying and it means that her thoughts are everywhere, dwelling on things that she normally would do her best to shut out, thoughts she'd never outwardly reveal if she had a choice. But she doesn't. Not when her mind is so open like this, the floodgates unrestrained since she's too weak to hold them back.

She's remembering herself in her bathroom with the shattered pieces of mirror around her, the momentary bite of pain as she stood there clutching her bleeding wrist. Cutting so deep that she'd need stitches, deep enough to leave thick scars on the expanse of her skin. Maggie pounding on the door, pleading with her to come out - I'm not mad, please just open the door, please-- and the old dull sensation of watching her mother shamble out of that barn, rotting and nearly unrecognizable. The overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that had followed. I don't want to be gutted. I want go, in my bed, tonight.

But she remembers other things, too. The tiny ladybug that had perched on her finger in the woods. Judith's happy gurgles. Daryl carrying her into the kitchen of that funeral home. Spending time out in the garden with her father - all of these tiny bright spots amongst all the terrible memories that make enduring what she had worth it.

Beth thinks,

I don't wanna die, I don't.

That had been a revelation to her, once. But it isn't any more.