Josh would often dream of her, standing in the middle of a field. She would call his name, wave at him, and reach for him, face morphing into absolute terror as she turned around, the world exploding around them.
Josh would wake up, realize it was all a dream and cry himself back to sleep. He had not seen her or the explosion which ripped her away from him, but it was imprinted on his soul nevertheless. He couldn't save her—she was falling—Lucas was there, punching the living daylights out of him, and then it would all fade away into a heartbeat rhythm, replaced by nothing nothing nothing.
Thud…by this time he was usually back in daydreams of fire and death with no way out.
He kept his old job at the bar, where he scrubbed and served and washed. He kept it because there was a rhythm to it; a memory collage—here was where he planned to bring Kara to Terra Nova by consulting with the Sixers, where he waited with guilt, numb, to be found out. This was where he poured out his heart—onto the rag that he used to wash.
This bar was covered with Josh's tears.
Washington had died a heroic death; a soldier's death. She was buried as such and officially treated as such, but everyone came to her funeral and everyone cried, and those who didn't were hurt more than the rest of them; and only four people knew her last words—to Lucas, to everyone, to the world.
"You have your father's eyes."
All that mind, all that strength, all that character, was sucked out of the camp (if Terra Nova was indeed a camp). It was now dry, as everyone tried to rebuild but spent more time around her monument than their workplaces.
She had a monument, of course. It was her jacket, hung up in the middle of the marketplace. It still smelled faintly of her—blood, sweat and shampoo. Her spirit was in the very bones of the rebuilt camp.
The events that had transpired hurt all, but the aftermath was overwhelming in sorrow.
This new country, or start of one, was covered with Washington's soul.