Noa’s eyes track backwards right along with Ruth’s. She knows they’ve got enough medical supplies for a small clinic in their hangar, but not enough people capable of making it useful. It’s a persistent problem. But instead of getting maudlin over something she herself can’t change, she offers a little smirk instead when Ruth’s looking her direction again.
“It’s still early, sweetheart. Bound to be one still sleeping it off with a burn or a cut that needs looking after.” Sometimes she wondered if they weren’t going to bleed out whether some of these men bothered getting patched up at all. Some of them took the phrase ‘chicks dig scars’ just a little too literal. “But if they ain’t found their way in yet, I think that gives free reign for you to give ‘em hell about it when they do. Maybe talk a little louder than necessary, clang around more than you would, you know…” she trails her sentence as she lifts her water ration from the counter.
The heft of it is familiar, since she rarely makes others fetch what’s meant for her. “And if they get real obnoxious you’re within your rights to call it an early day.” Ruth had a whole staff of people capable of handing over supplies if she didn’t want to.