A rangy cat rubs against the open doorway, tail coiling up to meet the sun. A rangy girl steps into view behind it, calloused fingers brushing the frame. She can't be more than fifteen.

"Folks said you all been coming around." Dark, deep-set eyes shift languid between the two; if she's at all alarmed by their appearance on her doorstep, she hides it well. "Stopping through, or staying? Because we got room,"

There's a faint, hopeful note to that: It's pretty clear she doesn't expect them to stay for free.