They're not the only one who has trouble sleeping, it turns out. Not terribly surprising, given the way the rhythms of passing time are so strange here. They can still remember, vaguely, what it was like to have a perfect hourly schedule, a rising sun that peeked over the horizon with an unfearful regularity. So when it's lost, they don't always know what to do. Don't always know how to handle the perpetual dark that sometimes shrouds the island.

They take to wandering about, sometimes. Crossing over the beach and watching the water lap at the sand. They've always liked the water. But tonight (today? Is it technically a day now? Does it matter if they never age, never grow old?) they know they at least won't be alone as they're kept awake, fidgeting and restive.

Sleeping easy isn't for children like them.

Frisk makes sure not to come empty-handed, though. They arrive with a series of puffs and grunts as they drag a sizable log, a dried-out chunk of driftwood, and haul it through the dirt and undergrowth. It's sure to make a great sound when they throw it on the fire, and last them the rest of the night to boot. As soon as they can get it - to - move - the rest of the way.