Can't hurt her? Annie giggles, the sound muffled where her face is pressed against her drawn-up knees, because that's funny. Really, it is. Her hands come down from her ears and she peers up at the, thankfully, real live person who spoke. It takes her a few moments to actually see him through the panic that left her wide-eyed and gasping for air like a diver who just broke the surface, but recognition eventually overtakes fear. Recognition and... amusement?

Amusement, yes, and that's definitely the sound of laughter coming from her mouth. So the ghosts are real (not real), meaning she isn't going crazy (any more than she already is), but Annie can't help herself. Laughing at odd times was part of what got her branded as mad in the first place, and she doesn't think there's really an odder time than this precise moment. "They couldn't hurt me when they were alive anyway," she confides in a bleakly matter-of-fact tone, very pointedly not looking at the silent group of dead tributes. Never mind that some of them could have hurt her, killed her like they killed the silent boy whose sad, accusatory eyes have never left her. They didn't, and she's the victor, and they have been her ghosts since long before the hotel gave them shape.

"And they can't hurt me now because they're not real." But what was meant to be certain comes out like a question, and she looks up at him with a desperate, expectant kind of hope. "They're not real. Like the little girl wasn't real."