It’s quiet, by the river. She likes quiet; no need to worry about strange men, no need to explain her limitations or her missing hand. Company would be nice, and she misses her home, she misses her purpose, she misses Weyland--but she’s got Hildegard here to tend to, and that’s something.

They’d built their little shelter together, Hildegard fetching branches from the small trees along the river and holding them in place while Mireille secured them as best she could. It keeps the sun off, it gives her somewhere to feel is hers, but it really isn’t anything. There’s no heart to it, no life, just two mechanical creatures doing the best they can.

Hildegard is resting in the shelter, avoiding the midday heat, while Mireille is down at the river in only her slip, washing the dust and the flecks of Hildegard’s last meal off her dress. It’s slow going with just one hand, but she’s doing what she can.

Like she always does.