[ Her stance is cautious; she isn't shaking in her (snow)boots, exactly. But timid enough, trying to be polite more than anything — stepping back a half-step and staring at him. She mumbles a soft 'Oh, um— hey.' before she really gets a good look at him, concern flashing in her face: blood. His arm's hurt.

She isn't good at accepting praise, her head dipping down in a shy sort of nod of thanks, lips pressed into a thin line that attempts to smile. That's... really nice of him to say. But her eyebrows raise slightly as he continues: the old man. ]

You... mean Methuselah? You spoke to him, about the monster? [ It... makes sense, considering everyone seemed to have had the dream. This man would have, too. Maybe he asked Methuselah about it.

Her eyes flick to his arm, again. He needs help. He'll give her the information if he helps her. ]

You're hurt. [ She says finally, there's a beat. ] You want me to help with your arm? I— I mean, I don't know, I'm—

[ She's not exactly good at that sort of thing. But... if he knows about that monster...? ]