"I'm so sorry that happened to you," is quiet and feelingly said. She hesitates for a moment, and it may be clear why in a moment. (She doesn't want to make this about herself.) Still, it feels important to say: "I know what it feels like to be someone else's experiment. Both where I'm from and here. It's not the same as what happened to you, but believe when I say ... it never becomes okay, but it also. It can scar over, eventually. Years later. I'm not saying nothing ever rips it open, god knows. But it changes, even if it doesn't go away."

She's paused in the weeding, watching Gela for a moment. Steady rather than horrified or pitying.

"But you have the extra layer of not knowing what's still with you. And that I think we can work on." A breath. "Do you know what happened, to the others who were there with you? Or anything about them?"