[ The stranger looks up, dark hair falling clear of one side of his face. Is she talking to him? (Do people talk to him?) His head still feels woolen and cloudy, the fluorescent lights too bright and the antiseptic smell too sharp in his sinuses, but they'd given him a blanket, and it'd been dry and warm, and he'd scrunched its scratchy mass up around his shoulders, so things could be worse. He doesn't know how, exactly, but he's pretty sure worse is an option.
There's no one else she could be talking to, nobody close enough it would make sense. And anyway, it feels right, talking to her. He squints, and the answer to her question comes tumbling out like a wrapped gift. ]
It'll be a shame when the freeze hits.
[ An odd thing to say. But the right thing, he thinks. The answer he's supposed to give. ]
I.
There's no one else she could be talking to, nobody close enough it would make sense. And anyway, it feels right, talking to her. He squints, and the answer to her question comes tumbling out like a wrapped gift. ]
It'll be a shame when the freeze hits.
[ An odd thing to say. But the right thing, he thinks. The answer he's supposed to give. ]