"I don't want you for a pet," Sonia objects, frowning. She looks genuinely bothered that he'd taken that as some condescension. But this is, perhaps, the first time he's expressed actually wanting something in any specificity. Not merely an expression of rejection or dismissal of his own potential. Sonia slowly slides back down to the grass next to him, her wobbly legs sighing in silent relief, still frowning at him, concern brimming in those large, dark eyes. She reaches not for the bottle, but for his hand.

"What do you want, Byerly? What is it you need?"