Grimshaw ran her fingers through your long hair. She huffed, shaking her head. Your hair had always been wild and unkempt, and she hated it.

“Sit down.” She ordered, placing you on one of the chairs. She grabbed a hair-tie, beginning to part your hair and braid it.

Grimshaw was never one to express her motherly love for anyone at camp — but she had a soft-spot for you.