Merle's hunch is right; it does, indeed, get on her nerves. He has an uncanny skill for it, damn him. She liked to think herself unflappable, usually. No one's gotten under her skin this often since her whole family died, and there's a comparison nobody wants. His hair isn't nearly the right color, even if he is, probably, ugly enough to fit in a group photo. His smile is certainly the right kind of cruel.

They see-saw into a pothole, and the engine makes a sound that isn't quite purring. Joan groans.

"You gonna tell me about it before or after I get the special tour?" She says. Her eyes are carefully on the road, though that does nothing to hide her expression, generally displeased, or her tone, generally matching. "You know, the gunpoint tour."

She's not dropping that. It can't be denied, and it's something Merle apparently has no anxiety over. She can harp and grouse over it without fear of fatal retribution, which is good, because meekly accepting it would be just as bad. Shit, that might kill her.