[ Rey's eyes fall to the burns, angry welts slashed across his palms with black lines coursing through where leather melted into skin. It's a war wound, grown worse for being untreated, but she doesn't get the chance to feel the flash of guilt before he's brushing past her to return the ration bar to her hands in a gesture that is paradoxically defensive and helpful.

The furrow of her brow accuses it of that very thing, but it doesn't hold, lost to the turn of her head as she crouches to rifle through crates. It's here somewhere, she's sure, but Unkar Plutt had made a mess of the ship that Han Solo had never been able to properly remedy before his death, and she's never sure if she should be considering where to find key components from the mindset of a hoarder like Plutt or a smuggler like Han. She stuffs the ration bar between her teeth while she searches, an excuse to keep quiet on the subject of his interrogation as much as on his injury, but she finds the kit readily enough and slides its tin casing over the floor to him. ]

It's old. [ She warns him one the bar is pulled from her mouth, still chewing while she speaks. ] But it should have whatever you need. [ For a moment, she wavers on starting that particular philosophical debate—she knows she doesn't have the energy for it, evidenced by the fact that she sits on one of the unopened crates in the hold—but she can't help herself. ] You know, Luke found records predating the empire in the temple where I found him. They indicated that the Jedi had found meditation an effective tool to channel the Force to even heal one's self.