He's running the day's checklist through his head before he's even fully conscious. Traps and perimeter markers to check before Slade comes off his watch, clothes and tools in need of repair. He's pretty sure it's not his turn to flesh out their perishable supplies, though he'll end up tagging whatever wildlife he can, which means gutting, skinning, cleaning, preserving.

Then of course there's whatever plans Slade has for harrying Fyers' men.

Oliver shivers, curling under the blanket he doesn't remember feeling so soft. Five more minutes, he thinks, and marvels that a thought that normal can still occur to him.

And then he's awake. On his feet, adrenaline sending a fissure of awareness through him - something isn't right.

He's not in the plane, or one of their other campsites. It's cold. Not just the damp forest chill of Lian Yu - it's cold, and the air has the vacancy of wide open space.

Oliver sways, planting his feet farther apart to stay upright while his body registers as one giant bruise. Memory briefly plays havoc with his sense of awareness, skipping backward and forward until he recognizes the kid in the window and can place himself in the context of his personal timeline.

That avalanche. The cold, drawing consciousness away.

Words come out in a croak instead of a snarl. "Where am I."