Less shyness, perhaps, and more wariness and uncertainty for how they'll react to her -- some from past habit, long ingrained, that has to be forcibly worked through, and some from the present, where she's done things that they have every right to be angry at her for.

They've made no moves against her -- surprisingly, no one here has -- but she doesn't know if she dares trust it yet. She doesn't know these people. The other shoe could drop at any moment.

At the pat, her eyes flick back up to their face, resting there a moment. Only then she slips forward, sinking slowly into a spot not too far distant, but not as close as where their hand touched. She faces them rather than the river.

Her eyes drift back to the boats, obviously attracted.

"They're paper," she notes. "How do you make it survive all the way to them?"