She's laying in her bunk, tossing a pillow up into the air and catching it as it falls. It's hot enough that she doesn't want to put a shirt on, but she's nervous enough that she's wearing one anyways. Sweat trickles down the back of her neck, pooling in creases and crevices and itching all over. When she moves her legs, her thighs squeak a little, and she winces. A bit of liquid drips down to a chewed-raw nailbed, and it stings enough that she pauses in her tossing of the pillow to shake off the pain.

There's a fly in the room, been there all day. The sound doesn't bother her like usual, since it's hot enough that the fly isn't doing much flying today. Besides, it's probably lived in this cabin longer than she has. Squatter's rights.