[ three weeks wouldn't have been long enough to get them to first snow, at least, not a first snow this heavy. and even if that were true, there weren't any houses like this in the woods - anya's people having a different manner of construction, and typically built into the ruins from the old world.

her brow creases, and she straightens up some, prying the coat she woke up in open to dig for her scraps of clothing she'd had on underneath, looking under the torn leather of the too small, mud-caked jacket she'd worn, ripped open in one spot by the bullet that struck her. and the skin underneath... perfect. no scab, no healing wound, not even a scar. definitely not something that'd heal in the span of three weeks. ]

Kidnapped by who? Where were your people? [ the ones that shot me she wants to add on, with vitriol, but doesn't bother for the moment, more concerned with getting answers more relevant. ] What've you been doing for three weeks, Clarke? How many more died in the mountain while you sat here?

[ who likes to blame everything on clarke? anya likes to blame everything on clarke. ]