Subject: No rest for the wicked. Who: Vivian Thorpe. Where: Slater's house. Warnings: None. Open to: Jimmy Slater.
Never let it be said that Vivian didn't do her bit.
She'd been sick for a while now, very sick. Ever since she'd arrived at Slater's, soaking wet and distressed, she'd come down with a terrible chill that rattled her bones. Alternately consumed her in fever and trembled her with cold shakes. It was awful, simply awful, but she had a job to do. She couldn't just sit around and do nothing.
And so, looking distinctly like death warmed up, she'd set about cleaning the kitchen, scrubbing the floors and stove and washing the dishes. At the current point in time, she was washing the kitchen table, having to pause every so often to regain her senses, dizziness or aches overwhelming her. She felt somewhat like she was going to collapse, but she had to finish her job.
Now she'd started it, she had to finish. She couldn't let Slater down.