The direct comparison isn't one Jenny has thought of before now, but at the notion, she lets herself run with it, imagining what it would be like for people to disappear at home the way they supposedly so often do here. Probably it shouldn't be amusing, but as it turns out, it kind of is. Her father would practically have a fit; her mother would try uselessly to calm him down. While she misses them (she does, despite any attempts to convince herself otherwise), it isn't so much that she can't think about them with some fondness. She does like it, to an extent, the freedom that comes from being here and making her own life the way she wants it. She just also hates the idea of being here alone, and focuses on the warmth of Cameron's arm looped through hers as a reminder that she doesn't have to be. (It's foolish, maybe, to put so much stock in the company of a near stranger, but what else can she do? She has no one else. She has nothing else. It's got to be understandable.)

"I don't know how they do it," she says, eyes wide. "I don't." That fact alone is madder than all the rest of it, making this place seem surreal in a way that not even dinosaurs and living in a jungle and people coming from different times, places, worlds could be capable of. People adapt, she knows that, they must, but this is something else entirely. "It is chilling, it's not right." At least we have each other, she almost says, but she doesn't; with his agreement, it seems to be understood. She's never thought of herself as the kind of girl to rely too heavily on one person, has, in fact, been fairly self-sufficient as of late, even in her relationship with David, but being here changes things. No one can be expected to function entirely on their own. It only stands to reason that she should want to keep close what she has.