The room is bright, and clean, and spacious. A stylish and modern table and chair add a touch of sculpture. It is how wealthy people live. Her heels make a snappy, tapping sound that echoes off almost-bare walls whenever she walks on the shiny tiled floor. In her boredom, she cuts out paper dolls to pass the time, where the dolls are trees in full foliage.
Will she miss the departure of autumn leaves, the loss of what little color that was left, that had said "Here was once something alive, and messy and wet and musty"? No. She is numb. She cut out trees from paper, but now there aren't any forests anymore. Only tree farms.
The primeval forests of Evangeline were long-since clear-cut to make paper. On good days the wind takes the smell of sulphur away from the paper-mills, and sends it somewhere else. Here in the room there is only the scent of the out-gassing of plastic. It is a bit like the odor of formaldehyde.