A raid makes sense. A raid does something. Standing around in the woods and hoping this plant and that rag are going to keep somebody from dying is starting to feel futile.

"Then we should send out people to get intel. We did before." She'd gone, slipping through the snow in her cowgirl boots down to the Cetas' compound. "There has to be something we can do."

As she mutters all that, she tucks up a sleeping patient's blankets--they fell aside him in some earlier tossing and turning. Nobody's going to do anything on her word, of course, but talking about how they could helps a little, even if she's already half-waiting for Duv to answer with a dozen reasons they can't.