The door flies open and Greta stumbles in, and Saoirse recoils her neck into the thick layer of fat under her fur, the one that keeps her warm and cozy in the water, like she's a turtle that can hide away from her shame. The fur at the top and sides of her head is messy and wet, discolored even now, though she can't see it, and at Greta's question, she wails out a long bwaaaaaaaaaah as if in answer. Cú barks at them from outside the bathroom, prancing in place as though he isn't sure what to do with himself.