(no subject)

It's her own bunk, in her own room. Her own blankets. The shelf along one wall is scattered with objects: a purple rose in a vase. A slightly threadbare stuffed lion. A glittering be-sequined scepter. A small box of dark wood, and a cowrie-shell bracelet, and a book bound in ancient dark leather. And more objects besides, all in a carefully (if idiosyncratically) arranged heap.

The light is on. The door is just barely ajar.
(I could be bounded in a nutshell)
River stands in the small space between bed and wall, regarding her pillow. Her face is utterly blank.
(and count myself a king)
Then she turns, deliberately, and lifts a stuffed rooster with both hands. It's fuzzy. She sits down -- still deliberately -- and lifts the rooster, studying it for a long moment.
(of infinite space)
Then, slowly, she curls up on top of the blankets, the stuffed bird tucked under one arm, and stares at the opposite wall.

Her long brown coat envelops her. She's warm enough.
(were it not that I have)