Jo frowns because she can feel the pointlessness smack her in the fucking face of actively choosing not to assume the answer first, out loud, without waiting, and then having it assumed of her. And it's fuckall annoying that it's not even wrong, but it burns at the edges where it feels stupid for having even attempted to press that inch into existence. To let him draw the lines instead of her.

He still answers,

but Jo's posture has shifted toward an aloof tension.
Part of her wants to ask if that means someone else didn't,
make it out with both eyes, but that part of her is still smarting.

That part knows she wasn't supposed to have asked for details to start with.
If it's smarting. That's on her. She was supposed to actually know better. Did.

"We should," Jo returns as her only words this time. He's up, and that means whatever this is, it's over, too. They're on the ground, and he's not falling to crackers in the open. She turns toward the only direction the path has again.

The intersection with three directions: right, left, and forward.

"Thoughts?"