She stays curled up in bed, newspapers and clothing piled on top of the blankets to keep in the warmth. She lets herself drift into a kind of half-sleep, a state of indifference, where nothing matters anymore. She opens her eyes from time to time, as slowly as possible. She moves as little as she can, only getting out of bed to fetch a new oven-warmed brick to shove beneath the covers or eat a slice of the bread left by Madame Chabaud, then returning to her room. She doesn’t know what day it is anymore, or even what time. Sometimes she doesn’t even know if she’s asleep or awake, if the whole
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