Little boys are durable, and she's not tall. The drop from her shoulder isn't going to hurt him for more than a few seconds, and he's not getting either her sympathy or anything other than a scrunched-up, derisive glance at that growl.

"Careful, kiddies," she says, dripping sarcasm. "Sounds to me like he's got rabies."

Okay, fine. She might be old -- practically adult -- but she's still got feelings that can hurt, and little boys have a way of stomping all over those with hobnailed boots.

But she'll be damned if she lets it show.

So she just lets Steve give her a hand to the hatch, and pulls herself through, drops lightly to the ground in the dark, only pausing until she hears him following her, before stalking off back to the bar, lips set, brushing ineffectually at her wet shirt.