Author's note: Please note the edited description! Fear not, I'm certain there will be more Hershel/Claire angst as the mood takes me.
Emmy, shortly after Unwound Future.
The shack was a cradle and a refuge. The walls groaned, the roof leaked, the insulation was nonexistent, but it was a place to go. The door had a lock, and god knows no one else wanted the place. I bought a cheap space heater and wore layers upon layers of sweaters. It's not hard to get sweaters. Not in Peru.
I didn't bother reading the papers for a few months; after what had happened in London I wasn't sure I wanted to know what the outside world was up to. It rather put a damper on my income; I wasn't reporting, had to rely on winter landscapes and it's damned hard to take good photos when you feel like hiding under the covers all day long. My meager rent and minuscule appetite were boons, of a sort.
I should have gone home; I know now that I could have. But you have to see, my world had just fallen apart, again. I didn't trust anyone. Except them, and I'd already hurt them enough… I didn't want them near me. I felt toxic.
So I hunkered down. I stayed put, in a tiny, creaking building that somehow avoided falling on my head. If it had, I doubt I'd have cared. I barely talked to anyone that whole winter. The whole world seemed dimmer, foggier. My clearest memory is of being exhausted, no matter how much I slept.
When spring came, I emerged from the shack like a deformed butterfly from her cocoon, and moved on as best I could.