Joan feels the intimacy of their connection snap like a twig, and misses it almost immediately. The potency of this feeling is unwelcome-- she prefers to feel nothing-- and she does her best to shove it aside, unobserved. It settles like a stone at the bottom of a ravine, anonymous and unremarkable. Who knows what germinates beneath it.

And so that emptiness is filled quickly with suspicion. Kindness is an affront-- it's a lie, or it means they think you're weak. Joan holds herself slightly away from him, observing the man in a new light. Quiet, intelligent-- but maybe it's just the glasses-- but capable of strange power, a light he chooses not to shine. Dangerous, but she's sure she can handle it. She's survived worse than this place. She can handle anything in it.

She listens, and she finds an annoying commonality. "Joan Agnes Dority. Jad. Is that how people introduce themselves on your planet?"