Raskolnikov shrugs right back at her. He’s not entirely sure why he’d brought up praying. The question had been entirely on impulse, a thought that had entered his head and exited his mouth without doing much else on the way.

“Curiosity, I suppose.” And then, partially thinking out loud, “The idea of death made me think of prayer. We might die here, and while I do not believe in the soul, I do wonder if a little bit of prayer might be in order…of course, what good is prayer, really? It will not save us. Nothing will, at this point.”

He doesn’t want to die here, but the thought of surviving these killer mannequins seems increasingly unlikely. No water, no food, little opportunity for rest…it adds up to a bleak situation, and he can’t imagine how they could possibly escape.