"I'm good," Anna shrugs, rejecting offers of orange juice, and she can compartmentalize in enough directions to note herself that he wants a glass, rather than swigging out of the carton. It's a little thing, but worth observing, like saying 'slacks' instead of pants, or wearing them in the first place when teenage boys as she knows them in this century for the most part forgo them for jeans. But people come in types, she's been alive long enough to know, and the types who wear slacks still exist. He's not odd to her, especially, or new, but he is--validating, in the strictest sense that his ability to see and hear her makes her real. Anyone could do this for her. People have been doing it all day, and she takes what she can from each of them, storing it up in the raging gulf of emptiness that is her memories of that endless time of limbo until she feels tangible again.
She can't think of anything funny to say about men named Anna, and so leaves it while setting a glass out on the counter within easy reach. Seth can occupy himself with that while she searches for and finds in another cupboard disinfecting wipes to clean off the counter, placing the knife in the sink for now. Her handling of its sharpness and further bloodstaining is ginger and comes with more of that odd flutter, but nothing telling beyond that. "It was more interesting than doing my chemistry homework?"
That actually could have been an answer, once upon a time, for the handful of days she was actually enrolled in public high school. Her apparent age suggests that it might still be true, although after a second she shrugs and comes around to retrieve the bag from Seth's lap, again with the avoidance of actual touch carefully structured to look casual, setting out bandages in the now cleared place on the counter.
"I don't know. What's a good reason? Boredom? Not wanting to deal with pesky policemen later?" Her mind surges at that, with a terror as quick and sharp as a blow with a knife handle. Aloneness, a kind of oppressive isolation shaped like being buried alive. What she's doing physically is turning on the hot water at the sink as far as it will go, waiting until steam plumes up before removing her rings to stick soapy hands underneath the scalding stream with a soft little inhale.