So I shake the bag again but nothing emerges. I know it’s here somewhere, likely under the clothing I’ve piled on the pad. But it isn’t. No sleeping bag. My personal warmth crisis has taken an ominous turn. The only sleeping bag in the tent is Skip’s. For now I use it like a shawl and drape it over myself. The warmth gives me an opportunity to think through my options. Embarrassment is becoming less important, and is being overshadowed by this new dilemma.