Once they reach shore, she's confident enough: slides over the side into the ankle deep water and sloshes her way up the gravely shore. "Sure thing," she says, trotting off to a nearby stand of trees. She's quick about collecting a few likely looking branches, stuffing her pockets with leaves before returning to the shoreline. She carves a small circle out of the gravel and, with the air of someone who's done the same thing a hundred times, builds a small fire in the little dent in the ground.

The result is a passable fire, likely just enough to cook over. Just the smell of burning leaves and wood makes her stomach growl - Pavlovian response or whatever.