He goes digging for the only things he could be rummaging could be going for, but as he rummages, Jo stares at him anew. Again. Parsing through too many thoughts. Even this long later, she is still ready for that promise be jerked from her at the gates to being opened. Experience is a piss poor helpmate to hope, and the only flavor she has of it says standing tall even as everything else burns.

If her mother had ever, even once—

Plaintive wheedling to the contrary, but then this the next breath. This act that showed so much louder the expectation the first was never going to work even though it had to be tried a hundredth time. The time, the effort—the understanding—that had to go into that. It's bareness that Jo feels at a loss for how to close right back up. A disjointed ache for being seen.

"Here." Jo is handing back the crossbow even as she's taking the holster and listening to him add the warning. Whether he balks a confused note or not, Jo shifts in her saddle and slides down out of it entirely. One hand against the horse's shoulder to calm it, reorient it to her location, before she turns to work at her sword belt. The fitted one that came with her sword from Victor and Jayce after she called in her chip on the payout from working the mine.

"If I keep shooting like I did last time—" In the Hunting Grounds; at the wrong target. "—that shouldn't be too much of a problem. Plus, retrival's always an option. They are bigger than bullets."