It's quieter outside. No walls connecting to any roofs except from where she sits, on the outside, and the sounds can escape. They aren't caught, captured, bouncing and amplifying until they drown out everything else. The air is clearer, cleaner, the rain washing away all the dust and eat. She's outside, sitting on the steps, watching the rain and her birds. Some of them are on the front porch with her, settling down on the wooden planks of their shelter (particularly the peafowl), but others (most of the geese) are out in the rain, nosing around the grass. It's nice, watching them. She can breathe, calm down. They are at peace and there's something very soothing about that.

She's not sure how long she spends out there, sitting on the steps. Time is difficult, has been difficult since the first earthquake. She's like a buoy, tied in place but bobbing this way and that with the waves, unable to control anything or do anything except simply be. A little while, she thinks. Maybe. She's brought back to herself by the sight of a woman, walking down the road.

The house that Annie and Finnick have claimed is at the end of their particular road; to get it to, either people are coming back from the forest or wanting to get here. Annie squints, watching. Waiting. Trying to puzzle it out.

Oh. She knows the woman. Nice, spoke of ice-cream, but she can't remember her name. The geese honk a bit, the casual overtones that can turn into a warning if the passerby insists on coming closer, and Annie is sure she should do... something. Call out. Maybe apologise for her birds?

She doesn't.

She just watches, and waits for the woman (B something, wasn't it? Be, bee) to make her move.