Washing clothes in a river is not exactly what Betsy had foreseen for herself, but after months of slapping wet shirts against rocks and pegging dripping sheets onto lines strung between trees she finds it comforting to be doing the same things day after day.
Some semblance of routine is good when you're hopelessly lost. If not for the sun setting in the West at the end of each day, they would be going around in circles forever.
Betsy closes her eyes and inhales the fresh clean smell of Dusty's shirt. Life's not so bad, she thinks, smiling to herself.