"Nothing's attacking me so far," she says, pausing in her evaluation for another swig of beer.

(Possibly she's thinking about his vantage point. Possibly she's thinking about a pool table in a Russian mob bar.)

There's a package of chicken that looks safe, so she sets it on the counter. She shifts the rest of the meat in the fridge to the freezer--better to not court food poisoning--then goes to check out the pantry.