"I was heading to Whisper Hill to meet with Father Ashmore. I was not expecting to get found by eight large men with guns who insisted I go with them," a touch of irritation crept into the words, although the irritation did not seem to be aimed at him so much as at the situation. She carefully situated her pop tart bits and then stared at that. "Eight was too many to disagree and live," she muttered this last part, mostly to herself and then focused intently on her poptarts.
One could almost see her doing math. She would look at her poptart diagram, and then up and around, and back down to her diagram. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a sharpie. Her other hand snagged the poptart wrapper, and she began to write on the inside, pausing occasionally to look up and around.
When she felt the weight of his gaze, she looked up, internalizing the question and following his gaze to the Director's office. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she shook her head, looking back down. Her hand continued scribbling along the wrapper.
"I'm fine, although I suspect my head will hurt for awhile. I was a breath away from suggesting Fel put me in a sleeper hold, but then..." she shrugged. There was an edge to her voice, and her shoulders were rigid. She shifted in her seat before shifting and shoving the poptart wrapper towards him.
It read: late late late late late late late late late late late late late late late late la White is a monster