It's cold on her end, too, and too quiet for comfort--so, hefting her backpack onto one shoulder, she moves toward the mirror. The cue bumps over the linoleum floor ahead of her, making sure the path is clear. Whatever betrayal it might feel like right now, she's telling herself it's better than being brought down by illness.

(Putting something of a stop to the nausea and headaches hasn't made sleeping easier, of course, or finding enough to eat. But those are problems she thinks they've all probably had.)

"Pardon. Nothing here feels okay," she points out quietly. The word morgue gives her pause, her mouth dropping open slightly. Everything about the world they've tumbled into suggests people used to live here, but the idea of a place for corpses is what really hammers that home. The living could move on or disappear; the dead would just be stuck. There might be something there-- "Are you alone? Thank you."