"If I were wearing a skirt," Sonia says tonelessly in between shutter clicks, "I wouldn't have ignored you at first."

She lowers her camera and tilts her head to look down at Byerly, very much not looking at her. That bothers her. That he can't look at her bothers her.

"You don't have to talk to me either," she points out immediately. It's an obvious deflection, but not without purpose. Today, at least, she's collected -- no bouts of hysteria, she'd been in an almost seren place before Byerly arrived. The hurt is not so fresh; the upset and distress have settled in, burning low. Sonia's fuse is only so long, but she is, at the moment, oddly composed.