River looks away, out at the stars.

She's quiet for a long moment; long enough it maybe seems she won't answer, while her hands make tiny slow shifts against fabric and her face stays tight and sober.

Then, low, "Won't listen."

She moves her head in an abrupt, small jerk -- maybe negation, or maybe frustration at her own words. "I try and, and. She doesn't hear it. Every time."