Logan stares at her hands, feeling the ache in his own knuckles as her claws break the skin. It's an action as familiar as breathing, made bizarre by the fact that it's happening on somebody else.

"Put those away." Jesus Christ, kid, you want people to lose their minds? Turning away from the other diners isn't going to be enough to keep people from noticing a ten-year-old with knives coming out of her hand. His voice is rough again, urgent. "Who are you?"

A name isn't an explanation. Not for those.