She just shook her head again, still puzzled, but she lit up like a Christmas tree when she spotted the whiteboard and pen on the fridge, something else that her older self had left there.
She scrambled down from the chair again, standing on tiptoe to pull it down to where she could reach, brow furrowing, tongue poking out between her teeth as she wrote slowly and carefully: No trees. Dangerus becos of the masheens. It wasn't her usual tidy block print, but it was close, definitely legible.