Well, now she has. It was supposed to be her bowl of stew, but she hasn't started eating out of it yet, which means it's a quick decision to carefully set it on the nearest table by the man's elbow. "If you want dinner," Brigitte says by way of explanation, "they provide communal meals here each day. It can be really useful when you've first gotten here and don't have any supplies or even food. I should know -- that was me right here, in that chair, a few days ago."

Now that she's closer, she can size him up properly. Still the right body, yeah, but his eyes are dark and his face clean-shaven and he's young. Possibly even her age, though it's hard to tell when the demeanour's all wrapped up in his flinty personal bubble, which is practically impenetrable brick and mortar. The easiest thing would be to slink silently away now that she's given him her own damn food out of sheer embarrassment, but Brigitte is stubborn like her father, and therefore still doesn't want to admit to the mix-up. She crosses her arms.

"It still sucks. A lot. But at least starvation isn't a concern."