Tom makes his way through the dark, silent house. It is the depths of winter and outside the ground is frozen as hard as iron. He has just been doing a once-over of the grounds. He knows he will be unable to sleep until he has made this last inspection of the day.
He is chilled to the bone and he blows on his fingers to warm them a little as he makes his way to the bedroom. He props the shotgun within easy reach of the bed and strips off his clothes. Despite the fire burning in the grate, the temperature is still frigid.
He climbs naked between the covers and is instantly enveloped in warmth as Anya wraps herself around him. He is amused that she doesn't even wake up, despite having his cold flesh pressed against hers.
He lies back, one arm behind his head and the other around Anya, and he ponders anew on the irony that the virus, the cause of so much misery for others, has brought him such happiness and such sweet content. Then he slowly drifts off to sleep - surrounded by the warmth of Anya's love.