She hears fine, sees fine, even if he is but a pinprick in the distance. It hardly matters. Her hands find the railing of her vessel as she looks towards the island, her expression almost steely. Though she seems almost entirely composed of black and white, blue eyes are vibrant, electric. Despite the age of the boy, she recognises who it is, especially as that voice rings out.

"I know," Benji says. "What I asked was, 'are you alright?'"

If she sounds fussy, it is because she is ruffled; she does not, however, sound particularly irritated, just a little resigned towards possibly not being liked. Dreamwalkers, unsurprisingly, get met with a wide array of reaction, and rarely is it positive. The large, drifting objects are respected, ignored, and she casually tries to widen the space between them and herself, even if the boat seems only to move at a lazy crawl through the inky darkness. She wants to think the nothingness-- or whatever this place is-- that surrounds her will protect them, but...

She taps black painted nails against the railing. Here, she doesn't have any biting habits, and they are nice and long, sometimes sharp. "Come with me," she invites, then. "We can go somewhere else."