He's met people who are more nonchalant about being shot, but nearly all of them wear a badge. But the blood is-- dried? So unless it's an old wound and she hasn't had the opportunity to get new clothes (possible, given the rationing) or she, like the others, is dead. The placement of the tears suggests a wound that, in the 1830s (if his hypothesis is correct) would have been fatal. He doesn't pry.

And then there's the fact that she's so... matter-of-fact about it that it's putting him at ease despite the circumstances.

"I don't think anyone plans on getting shot." He fidgets with the strap of his bag, and then lifts it off over his head, and takes off his jacket. It's still early enough in the spring season to be cold in Keeliai. After a brief hesitation, he holds it out.

"Here. Until we can find you something a little less torn up, okay? I'm Spencer."