There's a pause, and then she nods and turns back to fetching the sacks.

She doesn't say another word while tugging together a makeshift bed, pushing straw into a heap and laying the sacks over it, unless asked a direct question. Her movements get slower and more stumbling, and her face looks white and scoured-out, eyes sinking into hollows of exhaustion.

Outside, the wind has picked up, hard enough to occasionally rattle the doors and windows. If Crichton looks outside, he'll see that it's started snowing heavily.