"Heh, está bien." he replies, obviously pleased with her response. He tended to lapse into a mix regardless of whether the other person understood him. Growing up in a bilingual household meant there was a bit of fluidity in his approach to speaking. There was also some amusement to be gained from talking over the heads of others, or past them... but he hadn't exactly been in a playful mood for some time, and given the recent climate of the camp, he'd been making more of an effort for clarity. So the fact that she spoke any Spanish at all was a relief. At the very least, it meant he wouldn't have to worry too much about being misunderstood.
"I can go as slow as you want, chica," he adds with a smirk, unable to help it as he let her lead the way in front of him. He wondered if he shouldn't just come right out and say what he was thinking... but how the fuck was he supposed to word it? So, you don't know me or anything, but you might not want to stick around. These people get fucking shot at all the time and I think the guy in charge might be a deluded fucking lunatic. If she'd come in like he had, hungry and tired and desperate for clean water, she might not even care if she did believe what he was saying was true.
Of course, if she'd come in exactly like he had, then it had been with a gun pointed at her head. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the goddamn warning signs when he'd shown up.
In the end, he decided to try and get a better read of her, first. She didn't look like a biker slut or an ex-con... but what the hell did looks count for these days? "Qué hiciste? To end up here with a bunch of fucking cows, I mean. Has to be a hell of a story."