They're in for a long, molasses-paced stroll through the house at the rate Heather's going-- and you can bet her eyes are darting around as she enters the building, taking note of the layout. Of all the windows and doors.

That's something she'd never done before that night.

The state-appointed therapist who'd seen her a few times before they'd decided to ship her west had said that was normal for someone who'd been through what she'd been through (or at least the censored version she'd given to the feds). Existing in 'survival mode' for awhile was normal. She's willing to bet that therapist doesn't know that for themselves, though.

Once inside, she scoots, carries, and drags her various possessions a short distance in before stopping and looking around.

"... So, where do I put this shit."

Her voice is flat.