"Actually, I was thinking about it before you woke up..." Molly mused. "Maybe I don't want to be a healer. Maybe I want to be a pilot! Like you! Fly a Samson around, if there still are any! Or maybe something lighter, more maneuverable, more open...a little plane, maybe? Then - remember we were talking last night about me having a treehouse and bringing my friends there to play? I never did answer about that, but that'd be one way to do it. And I'm pretty good at fixing things, even things that aren't hurt animals..." She continued along that line of thought for a bit, as "into" being a pilot this morning as she'd been "into" being a veterinarian yesterday. She was thirteen and still trying to make up for ages five through ten, her "lost years"; it was all right for her to change her mind on a moment's notice about what she wanted to be when she grew up. "...And anyway, I'm still too scared to go up to an Ikran," she confessed, squirming comically where she sat.
Once Trudy's hurts had been tended to, however, she turned her mind back to being helpful. "So you want planet-smells, do ya? I could dab little samples of things inside your mask like just now; I have berries and balsams, a couple lumps of tree sap, a little clay, some moss, some grasses, some wax... None of it will kill you to breathe. If you like that idea, just let me know when the scent of that paste wears off!"
She helped Trudy up, wriggled into the pilot's crash kit, then draped her gathering-pouch over the woman's good shoulder. "Ready when you are," she chirped.