Elayra glanced up to Ghent at his news about pet rocks. Her brows raised slightly at his listless tone. If he wasn’t joking about the apparent similarity, Elayra wondered if maybe they weren’t the best of pets on Earth, either.
	She removed the large wooden box of their first aid kit from her pack. Her thumb brushed over where one of the many nicks in the worn wood overlapped with a scorch mark as she sat it down on the grass. She unlatched and flipped the lid open, revealing a roll of tightly-wound bandages inside. A half empty vial of milky liquid sat beside it, cushioned by a bed of tattered fabric.
	Reaching back inside her pack, a few clothing items and a fabric belt followed the box. She carefully placed them in a heap on a dryer patch of grass beside her.
	Ghent again gained her attention with his offer to guard their packs. She stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what he meant. Realization dawned in her gray eyes as her gaze flicked down to the clothes then back to him. 
	She shook her head once. She inhaled to respond, but Ghent spoke again. She blinked at him incredulously, questioning whether she’d heard him correctly. Had he really just [i]apologized?[/i] 
	Her mouth opened once, then closed again, unsure how to respond. An apology was the last thing she’d expected from him. An excuse, perhaps, or to just continue on with their day, pretending nothing had happened, sure. But not an actual ‘Sorry.’
	She turned her head from him and closed her eyes. As much as a part of her appreciated the apology…
	“There isn't time to be sorry here,” she began, her voice hard and the corner of her lips and nose pulled up bitterly. “You do, you deal with the consequences, and you learn. [i]Fast,[/i] if you know what's good for you,” she added, her voice falling into a dark quiet as she finished.
	She took a deep breath, then opened her eyes to meet his. Banishing her dourness as if it had never happened, a smirk settled on her lips.
	“But, like I said, you know to clean up your messes, muttonbrain.” Her expression warmed slightly into a gentler smile. But it faded as she carefully rubbed at her neck, streaks of the watery blood staining her skin and soaking into her collar. 
	“I suppose you're not the [i]absolute[/i] worst companion we could've wound up with,” she continued slowly, as if tasting each word and trying to decide whether they were bitter or sweet on her tongue. Or, more importantly, whether they were a teasing lie or reluctant truth. “I'd choose you over a shadowmire any day!” An impish smirk again spread over her face and glittered in her eyes.
	With a sigh, Elayra wiped her hand on her shirt then closed her pack. 
	“Take care of our thorn bites first.” She nodded to the wooden box’s contents. “[i]Then[/i] worry about changing. We don’t want fresh blood on our clothes. It could put the townsfolk on our trail quicker.”
	She reached into the box and grabbed the wad of bandages. She unrolled a portion of them, then reached instinctively for her dagger in her soggy boot to cut a small length from the rest.
	A second of confusion made panic well in her chest at not finding the weapon. She exhaled heavily as she remembered she’d given it to Ghent. Or he’d taken it. She wasn’t entirely sure, but either way, he’d used it to free her.
	“My dagger?” She reached a hand out toward Ghent, palm up, waiting expectantly.