[She jerks a little in surprise, but her hand is smarter than she is: it seeks Alana's out, laying itself atop hers and squeezing lightly, giving comfort back, what little she can. When Alana pulls away, she feels weirdly alone, but she knows it's a phantom feeling, a desire to cling to any measure of parental or faux-parental influence.]

[She weaves her fingers together, wringing them gently to feel sensation.]

I know. But I'm my responsibility, and I still . . . feel responsible. For bad things that happened because of the choices I made. You not knowing is a bad thing happening.

[Will being locked up, that's a bad thing happening. It's not wholly her fault, but sometimes it feels like it is.]

[She shrugs, anyway, and stuffs her hands into her pockets.]

You're welcome, anyway. Sorry you have to depend on crazy.