Roxie's head slides forward in a languid, limp way that hints that she may have been in the midst of a nap a moment ago, but when her eyes open they are sharp and focused. There's something off about the way she smells—there's the paint, sure (and this close up one can see the occasional dabs of it dried black against her hands and the sleeves of her jacket), but there's a subtler undercurrent of chemicals and dried death below that, far too dim for a normal human to really notice.

"... hello," she says, looking between Bandit and where Sherry is lagging along behind.