She came across a ramshackle shed. One corner of it still had some roof—it looked serviceable for a night. It was already getting dark.
The shed should be an outbuilding of a house. She scouted around, keeping to the bushes where she could, and found a stream.
All was quiet.
She drank from the stream, filled her bottle.
There was something that could almost have been a path leading upwards through trees. She went up it—climbing over a denuded area at the last, feeling horribly exposed, but stopping every few seconds, looking out from where she was, and seeing nothing—and no one.
She reached the high point, looked around a landscape that was largely wooded.
She could see no house, and no evidence of where one could be—no clearing, or roof-top.
There was a road, in the distance. Roads led somewhere. She took note of its location from where the shed was.
She went back to the shed, crouched into the corner of it, wrapping herself around in the fine-wool blanket that she used as a cloak. She nibbled the last of the cheese, and the crust of bread, kept the few strips of meat.
When she woke, she was stiff and cramped. It was cold.
There was no sound but for the croaking of some bird—that stopped with a flutter of wings the minute she moved.
She went down to the stream again and drank. Her bottle was still full.
She made her way to where she knew the road was.