Her brow furrows when she sees him over the horizon. Instantly, a dozen thoughts assault her, jumbling up. Where did he get those clothes? What's happened to his arm? How is he alive? Is she dead? On and on and on, her thoughts swarm until she isn't sure which one to ask first, which means that she's left staring rather stupidly at him.

She takes brisk strides (that are ruined by the sandals being an utterly ineffective mode of transportation) and she lets the first question in her mind be the one she focuses on. "How did you get clothes?" she demands, gesturing to the ill-knotted toga she's wearing. "This is all rather embarrassing, people keep staring at me," she says irritably.