Damn. She wants to thump him on the back - her cinnamon rolls are good, but even their most reverent fans would draw the line at 'worth dying over' - but not as badly as she wants to not freak him out any more than she has already. So she keeps her hands to herself while he recovers, and wonders, were-what? Please, gods, let him not be a were-skunk... because if he is, her life is officially not worth living.

"I won't," she promises. She could have said, I wouldn't, but she's well aware that she hasn't exactly given the impression of being someone with any discretion to speak of. Or not speak of. "Mrs. Bialosky's one of our regulars. I mean, the corner table by the window is hers in all but real estate contract." That's meant to be reassuring, like, see, she deals with weres all the time. Never mind that she'd really only suspected that Mrs. B was one until SOF told her outright.