You return to camp, dust kicking up around your boots as you lead the stray dog you found back through the campfire’s soft glow. The mutt’s tail wags nervously, unsure of its surroundings but trusting your hand on the worn leather leash. Just as you’re about to tie him near your tent, a familiar voice cuts through the night air.

“Susan Grimshaw,” you mutter under your breath, turning to see her sharp figure emerging from the shadows, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing at the sight of the dog.

"Just what do you think you’re doing, bringing that thing into camp?" she asks, voice firm and full of authority.

Before you can answer, Susan steps closer, her eyes shifting from you to the dog. There's something unreadable in her expression—maybe concern, maybe irritation. "This is no place for strays. We’ve got enough mouths to feed as it is."

But there’s no immediate dismissal, no further scolding. It’s almost like she’s waiting for you to make your case.