She lets him through first; lets him navigate the space as best he can, kindly not voicing any amusement or judgment when his foot smacks into the solid box of canned goods. Once he's a few feet in she trails in after him, sweeping her eyes around the dim, desaturated room. Not much by way of clear and vivid detail in this lighting, but the layout seems to be similar to hers. Bed, television, bathroom. Practically a cut-and-paste, flipped on the vertical axis.

"I can see a little," the answer's deliberately vague; deliberately withholding. He's nice now, but in her limited experience before the void, lots of humans — assuming that's what he is — can be nice until they find out what you really are. Then, some of them seem to turn on a dime. They become suspicious, judgmental, afraid. Disgusted, even, at times, though that one's pretty rare. "Probably enough to make out the labels. Do you want me to find something specific."

Uno reverse, lobbing that tennis ball back into his court. He's offering her charity, she doesn't want to take his favorite can of ravioli or something. She'll eat absolutely anything put in front of her at this juncture, even if her heart's singing out a desperate song about double cheeseburgers and fries and milkshakes.