That answer worries her, a little, although she decides not to pry into it right now; she knows he's smart or he wouldn't have made it 116 years, but she also knows he's volatile, and the militia could prey on that. She's silent for a second, and then retreats to lean, next to him, on the picnic table. Her tone when she speaks is actually wry, even nonchalant.

"I don't really miss home. At all. There are people I wouldn't mind seeing again, but..." Hasibe shrugs one shoulder, glancing over at Mitchell. "I don't really care that I'm here. That's fucked up, isn't it?"

It's not serious or even sad, just absent, and on the end of that inquiry, she half-smiles, a little self-deprecating. It's telling, she thinks, when it comes to how isolated her career and her own practices had made her. Or maybe she's just difficult to tether by nature.