Fisher considered the man with atypical solemnity. Admittedly, the gravitas was somewhat ruined by the crunch of cereal and Fisher's cap ("TRUST ME YOU CAN DANCE." – Vodka)
"You are quiet," she said with mild accusation. "Like a cat with bad ideas."
There was no actual harm in admitting she was preparing for a project. It wasn’t as if Fisher was – currently – banned from any of the workshops or the laboratories. She hadn't done anything truly questionable in weeks. The pumpkin hadn't even bitten anyone (well, not hard enough to break skin.)
On the other hand there was no point in admitting anything that could later be used as evidence of intent.
"I am mistrustful of the spoons today," she said. "Also, the cows. My Horoskop said to avoid both." She pointed her chopsticks, manners be damned, at the papers under Mr. Hartley's arm. "Whose traumas are those?"