Maybe the her before -- whoever she might have been -- saw what she sees now. Practical, helpful, not a big talker, not a lot of ego to speak of, probably good in a fight. Not terrible on the eyes, even being kind of a mess. Or maybe it's that resonance of hollowness behind the eyes, the thousand yard stare, the sort of bone-deep trauma no one else gets but someone who's lived through Hell, too.

No telling. It's not something she's got an inkling to analyze. What she's got is a belly gnawing in hunger, and growing itch to pin tall, broad and beardy over here against something sturdy for a hour or two. It's getting more distracting by the second, in fact.

"What about a bed?"

She doesn't even have the shame it takes to blink, as she says it.