Cho sighs, a little tiny puff of exhaled air, and she considers the silence. "Never comment without context," she says, quietly. "That's the rule. It's a good rule. That way, you don't embarrass yourself. I used to be better at it." Now, apparently, she just sucks at waiting to be certain before she speaks. If her mother could see her now. "I do this thing now, there's no one to get mad at me for talking, so I talk. Too much. I wanted to-- find something good in it. Which isn't an excuse, when you just make it worse." Which she's still doing, isn't she? Ben's cold response, and the look on his face, she can't imagine that it's resentment turned inwards. He was a baby, he couldn't help anything that he did, anything that happened to him or the people around him, which means she's the new unknown factor to be upset by.

She might have felt stifled and useless when she was supposed to be seen and not heard, but at least she didn't go blundering into mine-fields of abusive rich assholes and dead mothers. Point one for Grandfather. The mice in the container are moving again, munching on the crackers. The little golden one in her hair puts a paw on her fingertips, ready to snatch a cracker and scurry back, but she's just barely faster than it is, and transfers it carefully to the container with its little buddies before putting the lid on it. "I'll stop. I promise. I can be quiet. I'm really good at it." Out of passing curiosity, she wonders if the fruit of the tree has anything to do with either the glowing or the survival, and she picks a few pieces and puts them into a mesh pouch meant to hold a water bottle on her belt. Then she tucks the container under her arm, grips the branch tightly in her free hand, and begins getting down, which involves the same awkward shuffling that got her up here, just in reverse.