"Well... not an employee, no. Arthur tends to forget to lock up properly, so I help myself to some food when I'm working at night. I'm a painter, do buildings and stuff," Graffiti motioned towards her gas mask resting on the table. It wasn't particularly a lie, and it had gotten her by well enough before. Nobody really doubted the black woman with the gas mask claiming to be a laborer. She double-checked the door to make sure it was locked, and retook her place at the table. "And trust me, I know all too well what this neighborhood is like. I'm just glad you're okay. Normally girls like us end up a lot worse."

Graffiti tilted her head slightly, examining the wound on the other woman's head. "I'm no doctor, but the wound doesn't look too deep. And you're walking and talking straight, so I think you can rule out a concussion." She looked down at the table, finding a sandwich with but a few bites of it left. It was gone quickly. She wiped her mouth, disposing of whatever crumbs might have decided to stick around on her face.

"You've got a friend in the graveyard, too, huh? I'm sorry," Graffiti said solemnly. She knew far too many people in that graveyard, and did her best not to think about it. "I can walk you home, if you want. I'm just about done here, but you can take as much time as you need to get yourself settled."