There is no snow in the Wasteland. There's almost never any precipitation at all, and while it gets cold enough to kill an unwary person at night, it's always that kind of dry, still chill that wrings the wet out of any human body exposed to it. In the desert at night, you can't be sure whether you're hypothermic or dehydrated. Furiosa doesn't know that as Winter, per se. Just the way the world is, and has been since she was a child.

Last year, of course, she got a hell of a crash course in this kind of weather, and her folk have insisted on precautions to make sure she doesn't get stuck in the Nexus again. She has an entourage, posted by her gate and ready to back her up in case of trouble, or fetch her back the minute she's needed at home. They're not with her now, though, just waiting in the wings. She's better equipped to walk in this than they are, anyway. But she appears to have a couple books and pamphlets about snowmobiles tucked in a bag over her right shoulder; she's considering her options.

She has jury-rigged treads strapped to her boots, clunky chains to help bite the ice, but she seems to be choosing to walk in the footsteps of previous passers-by, rather than on dubiously cleared areas. At least she's attentive.

"Hesitation," she answers the question without looking up from a step over glossy uncleared ice. "And maybe naivete. I'm done trying to pretend this place doesn't exist, and doesn't impact my world."

Once she thinks she has her footing, then she looks him over. There is no hint of recognition in her face, just the natural caution--suspicion, really--of a person who has learned to assume most strangers mean ill. "Can't have it both ways, I guess. Can't take a blessing without a risk."