Jess will give credit where it's due for Kamala keeping herself hallside instead of bursting into the room. Six in winter means there's no sunlight left to filter through the windows and the moon must be low and covered because there's none of its light bouncing off the snow either. Jess stumbles around the unfamiliar room until her palm collides with a light switch.

"Just give me a minute," she responds, the curt edge of it intended for Frank, not Kamala. Why would he put her clothes away? Doesn't he know she's such a mess they've never been put away before? They're probably scared. Or annoyed, like her, at having to share space with Frank's clothes. Is he gonna be coming in here every day or night to get a clean outfit or did he not think that far ahead, like she was incapable of doing until now? Some of her shirts, she's not going to be able to tell apart from his, they're deliberately oversized and dully colored.

Jess gives up on looking for underwear (they're in the unpacked box she brought in last, the above train of thought frenzying her beyond recall. She locates her red scrub pants from her arrival, dragging them on as she steps haphazardly to the door. The front of her shirt is clumsily tucked in while the back hangs loose, and her hair is a half-dried, frizzy mess thanks to static cling and no conditioner. Upon the door creaking open, her befuddled glare lands on the frankencat before Kamala. Really, Kamala. It's nice and all but she could never eat a whole one.