"Nearly twenty-two," she says, as they keep moving and she resists the temptation of touch her elbow where he did. Like one of the feral dog she so resembles, she's not used to being handled. "Surprised you forgot my birthday."
Considering that it was, as far as she understands, one of the worst days of his life and his father's. She walks a little faster than he does, hands still firmly tucked away in her pockets, and what she projects that might have something to do with the space they're given is pure, merciless efficiency of motion, like a naked and immaculate engine.
"Not that it matters much. How much do you know about what happened?"