Cho's not really sure how she was supposed to just know that, but he's hit the button, so it's not the most pressing concern. Her mental five second countdown began once he did, and she wraps a towel around both cats at the last moment, clutching them to her chest just as the autoclave groans and belches out a diffused wave of heat and humidity, upping the temperature to something approaching comfortable, if a bit muggy. As soon as it realizes it's unable to maintain its pressure, it shuts off, but it's worked pretty much the way she wanted it to, and she puts the cats down. They struggle their way out of the towel, look mightily offended, and then almost immediately curl back up on top of it and begin grooming one another.

There's a question in Cho's mind, as she looks down at the box of weights. Is it really that ridiculous to try to do something yourself? How will you know what you can and can't do if you never try? Her whole life spent with her family, she's been scolded for failures, and scolded for giving up, for trying too much and for trying too little, all according to some unwritten set of rules. She knows that this man is not Grandfather, and getting an answer from him will not be the same thing.

Still, she has always wondered, but never been brave enough to ask... "If I had... asked you to do it for me-- before trying those first two myself... would you have thought less of me for not trying to solve the problem on my own before turning to others?" Her voice is small an hesitant, but her question is genuine, and she can't make herself look at him. It's something so deeply embedded in her mind, to keep her eyes down, to feel the shame of not just knowing.

Is there a correct answer? Was there ever a correct answer? Or was the whole point of her childhood just to fill her with that shame?