River Song rises from her camp roll, churning her shoulders back and forth like a turn of good butter before she blinks and looks over at Borusa.
The woman’s eyeless yellow diamond head is gazing off… at the Doctor and the Master. They’re not here.
The Doctor’s roll is a flat pile of bluish vinyl-look waterproofing bag and a dog-eared book or two stuffed in the ripped out hem. The thing is, truthfully, an eyesore, and thoroughly unslept in, judging by the kink on the fabric that was just about head-area last night. It’s still there now. The Master was just sleeping on the ground, near the fire. Both of them, gone. It figures. They’re together, after all.