for notes, letters, and other exchanges
- the door to Samson's room is guarded by an armed man; open-door visitors may come and go during appointed hours; private visits may be held with permission from the appropriate authority (or by bypassing the guard somehow, if you're so determined)
- paper messages may be exchanged; all contents will be skimmed by an officer unless delivered surreptitiously
- he has no sending crystal nor any message book at this time
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Not all, and Merrill's gaze flicks away for a moment; down, toward the untied laces of her boots, toward the remnants of mud and blood that no longer cling to them (she had scrubbed) but that she remembers.
Samson doesn't mean anything rude by it, she reasons; he is glad that she, at least, has come back. At least, she thinks he's happy about it. He's the one who approached her, after all.
Creators, people were difficult.
"Mostly," she manages, with a sad sort of smile. Her gaze travels up from her boots to Samson's, up and up until she sees his hat and her smile turns more genuine, if a bit bemused. Her fingers twitch; whether it's the electricity in her system or something else is hard to determine, even for her.
"Did you make your hat?"