He doesn't even have to say anything; she already knows. This is their burden, their duty, whatever you want to call it, and he's become used to answering the calls that he deems worthy.

Shepard hasn't heard his one, though, if she's asking.

"It's a kid," he says distantly, as if he's still hearing the call. (Because he is.) It's a hushed whisper, a desperate plea, and he can tell that the child doesn't expect to receive any sort of answer.

"His father's been mistreating him, and he needs a way out." This isn't just being grounded or asked to follow rules, but suffering actual physical harm that goes beyond the pale.

Already, one of his stone hands has curled into a fist. He knows injustice when he sees it (or in this case, hears it). That rung bell continues to echo around in his mind.