"More of a cure-nothing," she mutters. The alcohol has lowered her inhibitions about wallowing in self-pity, about letting the negative, self-loathing seeds of doubt in her take hold and keep her wrapped up tight. Normally those thoughts are there, pressed right there up between her brain and skull, where Edriss used to be, but she doesn't verbalize them. Verbalizing these things gives them some kind of authority.

She's about to offer to go when he hands her the gear. She stares at them a moment, dully, then up at him with a question in her face, as if asking for more permission than his offer contains. His gesture has caught her by surprise; a heavy part of her expected to be turned away, or at best barely tolerated. He has no obligation to entertain her attempts at feeling her way through their strange relationship, whatever it is. She expects he only visited her in the brig due to some misguided sense of responsibility, as if he were paying penance as much as she was supposed to be. As that is not the case here, she's fairly flummoxed that he invites her to have an excuse to stay longer.

But he's already turned, so she puts the equipment on and follows him.

"What's this you've got here?"