Claire gave him an honestly doubtful look. "Chocolate milk is for stuff like skinned knees – which I can't even have long enough to get to a kitchen anymore – and bad days at school – which are over for me – and all that easy stuff I used to think sucked so much. I think this," she waved her hand around, "is more like, I dunno, stuff in shot glasses that burns going down."
She wished it could be funny, that it could be nothing more than a smartmouthed remark he'd brush off with a Dad-Look over even suggesting drinking alcohol, but it wasn't funny. She'd killed a man, clearly that meant she'd reached some new level of self, something that made going back to the old way things happened just as much as five years of hiding had made it impossible to go entirely back to the way things were. He might want to tell her she was still the girl she'd been before, but she didn't think she was.