So there's a whole packet. Citra shakes her head, still not liking the disparity between how ready the city seems to be for new arrivals and how little it actually tries to steer them in the right direction. It sounds like everyone just has to rely on the kindness of strangers to make it that far. Don't the locals get tired of finding random, confused people wandering the streets?

She's probably proof of that much. It hadn't taken her long to duck into that alleyway to try and get her bearings, but enough people saw her that someone else could have said something, if they'd really wanted to. Probably what Rowan means by 'different,' which now feels like a charitable choice of words.

"Different how?" she asks, in case she's wrong, and there's some other bit of weirdness she should be looking out for.

Her eyes widen at the circumstances of his own arrival, and she snorts at the mental image it conjures up before it occurs to her to wonder at the broader circumstances. "Revival center? What happened? Were you caught?" She would have heard if that had happened -- the whole Midamerican Scythedom would have been buzzing with the news -- but maybe word just hadn't reached her, yet.

Even though that's all a world away (and over a year ago, from his perspective), it's still an alarming thought. Without waiting for her permission, her hand reaches out and clasps his wrist.