"Mus' wake up," he warned.
She nodded—painfully slow. She made no effort to move.
Walt stood up and made his way to the accursed feeding machine. He pressed the button and collected dollops of hot food in a shallow bowl. It was a mess because coffee mingled with the many other items of a fine balanced diet including appetizer and dessert made just that—a mess. But it was hot and it was food, and though there was not a single bit of silverware in the place, Walt managed. He carried the bowl to the couch and offered it to Christine, who protestingly permitted Walt to feed her with his fingers. She did not eat much, but it did warm her. Then Walt finished the plate.
Christine shuddered under the blankets. "Suits losing ground?" she asked.
Walt nodded pitifully.
Christine thought that over for a full minute. Then she said: "Must get up, Walt."
Walt wanted to let her stay there, but he knew that she must arise and move in order to keep from freezing. He nodded dumbly.
"Losing ground," he said, meaning the heated suite. Minutes he considered it. Long minutes....
There was a faint crackling noise, and a pungent odor came. It increased without either of them noticing it because their senses were numbed. A curl of smoke wreathed Walt's chest and it rose above his face and got into his eyes. Walt coughed and tears came and the salty water dribbled down his cheeks, dropped to his suit, and froze.
"Something burning," he mumbled, looking around to see what it was.