(no subject)
Even if they did have electricity, Beverly had gotten used to not staying up late at home, because of the lack of light. Humans got adjusted to situations fairly quickly, Deanna had always said. Not adjusting meant that there was either something wrong with you or that you were too damned stubborn.
Beverly sometimes wished there was something wrong with her, even though she was stubborn as a mule, most days.
Today she'd spent ages in the clinic, trying to do some basic microbe identification on her own, before she realized that she was severely out of practice. That was what spending too much time riding a desk did to you--a slow, steady loss of skills, like a drip from an old fashioned faucet, just a little over time until you woke up and found your bathtub had overflowed.
"This is what tricorders are for," she muttered sullenly, as she squinted at the immunology text that lay heavily in her lap, before she caught herself sounding petulant. Heaving a sigh, she looked up at the night sky through the patches of leaves, finding some kind of inner strength (and the resolve to not act like a goddamn teenager) before she went back to the thin pages illuminated by the lamp that she and Nancy had rigged up on their porch. Somewhere nearby, it sounded like someone was having an argument--maybe the Winchester boys--and it was nearly drowned out by the sound of the waterfall and--
Beverly closed the book firmly, barely getting her fingers out of the way. "Concentration of a teenager, for that matter," she muttered to herself, shooing a fly from near the lamp and taking a sip of the tisane she'd come up with. Come to think of it, it was the only productive thing she'd done all day.
Feel free to see her light from the path, it's not far.
Beverly sometimes wished there was something wrong with her, even though she was stubborn as a mule, most days.
Today she'd spent ages in the clinic, trying to do some basic microbe identification on her own, before she realized that she was severely out of practice. That was what spending too much time riding a desk did to you--a slow, steady loss of skills, like a drip from an old fashioned faucet, just a little over time until you woke up and found your bathtub had overflowed.
"This is what tricorders are for," she muttered sullenly, as she squinted at the immunology text that lay heavily in her lap, before she caught herself sounding petulant. Heaving a sigh, she looked up at the night sky through the patches of leaves, finding some kind of inner strength (and the resolve to not act like a goddamn teenager) before she went back to the thin pages illuminated by the lamp that she and Nancy had rigged up on their porch. Somewhere nearby, it sounded like someone was having an argument--maybe the Winchester boys--and it was nearly drowned out by the sound of the waterfall and--
Beverly closed the book firmly, barely getting her fingers out of the way. "Concentration of a teenager, for that matter," she muttered to herself, shooing a fly from near the lamp and taking a sip of the tisane she'd come up with. Come to think of it, it was the only productive thing she'd done all day.
Feel free to see her light from the path, it's not far.