Eugene tightened the blanket around himself, its rough fabric barely holding off the cold that seemed determined to gnaw straight through him. He stared at the woman—Amèlie—who was still braced against the doorframe like she'd collapse if she let go. Blood smeared her skin and clothes, the stuff on her arms drying in uneven streaks. Her breathing hadn't evened out yet.
"You don't understand," she said. "We can't stay here."
Eugene gestured at himself with one hand, still gripping the knife in the other. "Do I fucking look like I'm ready for a goddamn snowstorm? I go out there like this, and I'm dead anyway."
Her eyes moved over him again, taking in the dirty blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders, his bare legs poking out below it. She didn't argue with him about the obvious—he wasn't exactly in survival condition—but she shook her head like that didn't matter.
