Wichita doesn't need to be a mind-reader to hear the level of concern in his tone, the worry in his voice. He's no doubt seen - and smelled - this particular indulgence of hers, but she's not about to justify herself to anyone, him included. Five or six years ago, she might've shied away from it, but that was a different girl with a different name and a much lamer sense in fashion, and she has no intention of ever revisiting that past, even if it meant she could go back to a pre-zombie life. Things had been good back then, but they hadn't been better. Maybe it's better right here, right now, she thinks to herself, taking another small hit and holding it in for a beat or two before subtly exhaling, the joint still posed between two fingers as she drops her hand down to her side.

"Peachy," she murmurs, squinting slightly as she glances out over the water and the glare the sun creates overhead, almost too bright to stare at directly. Somehow, she manages to do it for what feels like a long time before her eyes start to water and she glances away, back and up at him.

"So, you sitting or what?" she asks, nodding to the space next to her, at the end of the dock.