"I wonder that, too. Like... if my parents came here. I don't know how I could tell them that I've killed people. What I've seen, or--any of it, really. Any of it. I'm so different, now." She was no longer an eight year old girl. She was a survivor of something terrible, and spent every day for the past few years trying to stay alive. That meant running, killing, scrambling for any sort of advantage.

She hopes it's a good thing that she still feels guilt, even if she had to do bad things to stay alive. There wasn't a lot of choice left in the world if you wanted to live.

"You saw what a few years did. I told you what I had to do," she glances over at him, frowning. "I'm glad you recognized me, though. And... I know it's been longer for you, but I want to think that Sarah would recognize you, too. You still seem like a dad."

To her, anyway. It's obvious once you look for it.