Internally, she is facepalming. A lot. "...They thought you were what?" Teenager, deer. Pretty big difference between the two, as far as she can tell. "Here? Out back?"

A 'Beware of man-eating werewolves' sign is sounding more and more like a good idea all the time.

She sucks in a breath in a sharp hiss at the sight of the wounds on his back. She'd seen worse, true, but not by much, and it was always worse looking at injury done to one so young.

That she's only perhaps six years older than him doesn't really cross her mind.

She proceeds to open the canister and begin applying the ointment carefully to his wounds. She's got a deft touch, perhaps suprisingly so, considering her profession.

And she has enough sense to not ask about the scars.