Crozier doesn't know if he's going to be able to fall asleep that night. He's craving whiskey - or the damn drops MacDonald made for him - but he has neither and so he paces for a while, tries to read, and then crawls into his berth to stare at the ceiling.

He rubs his eyes tiredly. The relative comfort berth is gone, replaced by a rocky hill that overlooks a few shabby canvas tents.

Crozier starts walking towards Rescue Camp.