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Shauna looks paler than usual against the window—hollowed-out, wispy like how Lottie feels half the time, barely seeming to exist among the rest of them anymore. She's lost in her silent mourning, eyes fixed on the snow outside the cabin as if by looking she can recapture a little of what she's lost.
She looks like she's lost herself completely. Maybe she has.
Shauna's always been quiet, a little detached, but ever since Jackie she's faded out completely, curling into herself with a resigned, forlorn look that Lottie recognizes well.
(Like understands like, after all, and while all the Yellowjackets have lost and grieved out here, none have quite like the two of them.)
Well, it's not quite the same, but she thinks it's close enough. Lottie lost a friend, a lover, a spiritual anchor; Shauna lost... well, there's no proper word for what Jackie was to her, is there?
(Even without words, Lottie understands.)
So when she touches Shauna's shivering shoulder and says, it's what she would've wanted—maybe not for the rest of us, but for you, she means it.
Sometimes she wishes Laura Lee had left something behind, when she died. Something for her to keep. Something for her to eat.
But she didn't. She is for the wilderness now, all around them, in the trees and the wind and the snow. Memory is not only retained in flesh.
(Still, there is a desire within her, a hunger deeper than the permanent growl of starvation, something that prickles beneath her skin and sings in her blood. Still, she wishes and she wonders.)
Shauna got to eat the one she loved. Jackie lives within her now, even more so in death than she ever did in life, in the meat working its way through her body and the baby growing in her chest.
Lottie has had no such honor. But she has a memory, and a duty, so she does her best to comfort Shauna. That's all she can do, really.