It doesn’t matter how much there is or isn’t, Noa isn’t aiming for oblivion with the whiskey. It’s a habit more than anything, or nostalgia. Even if she wouldn’t call herself nostalgic. There’s something that settles her about drinking whiskey.
Noa taps a fingernail against the glass, her body language and facial expression neutral up until Marina since she doesn’t have an answer for why. Then, and only then, does her brow furrow in the middle. It’s not the answer she wanted, it doesn’t lend any insight to the predicament, or to what could be lurking around the edges of the Dog Park while they’re vulnerable.
“I’ve been looking over my shoulder every day waiting for that other shoe,” Noa exhales with a puff of air. It’s more emotion than she’d show to someone she didn’t trust, but less than some would be used to seeing. “Cartels and revenge ain’t anything I’m real familiar with.” There’s a short wish that their officers were here; men that were used to leading and looking out. Noa felt like she was floundering.
She takes a swallow from the glass, sets it back on the table, like the action will calm her paranoia back down into the compartment she’s been housing it in. “So we keep watching our backs then?”