<strong>Ruth</strong><br/><br/>The days without anyone around the infirmary to look after feel the hottest most times. No work to distract from the sun crushing down on everything, that asshole. There's still the little things to do of course. There's always something. Ruth's in there tidying up the place to her satisfaction when John's voice comes in through the doorway, just calling her real casual like. So she doesn't pay much attention. Just sticks to getting that patchwork sheet laid out on one of their...well, let's be generous and call them cots, even if they're little more than some scavenged padding on the ground in some cases. Maybe the infirmary's a bit better than the average structure in Gomorrah - folks can get pretty generous about pitching in materials when it could save their own lives some day - but that's not saying a whole lot. Anyway, point being John just likes the sound of his own voice too much for Ruth to bother listening to every word he says. Other things to do, better ways to spend her time.<br/><br/>"Hey, Ruth, is that Anise?"<br/><br/>That's different. Ruth grabs her cap on her way to the exit, brushes aside the weighted curtain they use for a door. Anise or not, it doesn't take much to see it's someone fucked up royally heading their way. She steps back inside for her shoes, then she's out and heading for the shambling figure. Just a quick, "Prep station one," over her shoulder as she goes, her coffee-brown skin brought to a glow when she steps from the shade out into that baking heat. She doesn't run, though. No sense rushing toward something she doesn't know for sure what it is yet. A good crisp walk toward whoever that is got themselves so bloodied up, see if she can't help them along to the infirmary a ways quicker since that seems to be where they're going anyway.