Morning arrived like the camp had hit a snooze button and regretted it.
Heaters hummed low. Steam curled from a kettle and went nowhere in particular. Snow hissed on tarps with the soft, steady persistence of someone sweeping the same floor twice.
Feris had looped a belt around her waist and tied herself to a center pole so she could "stand." It made her hover in place like a very determined balloon that refused to drift.
She was trying to make coffee with one hand and a lot of opinions about physics.
"This pot is judging me..." she announced, poking the burner with a ladle. The pot bobbed as if agreeing. "Don't look at me like that."
"You're looking at a pot" Obi said, stumbling out of his tent with hair that had made enemies overnight. "It has no eyes, which is also how I feel."
