He's young, and he's alone. A part of her, a quiet, cynical part that sounds suspiciously like her sister says that she's just being paranoid, because of-fucking-course she is, but all the same, Zoe can't help but worry. She's seen too much lately not to. That she doesn't know where the hell she is should maybe be a comfort in that regard — she's not where she was, and she's not in the place at the top of the stairs, either — but it has her on edge, her breathing a little rapid, her head occasionally turning to glance over her shoulder like she's expecting someone to be there.

She drops the cigarette she's been smoking and stubs it out under her shoe.

"Hey," she says to the boy, walking closer to him, a little terse, but with an undercurrent of gentleness. "Are you okay? Are you here by yourself?"