Trixie’s never been an overly social being just for the sake of being friendly, but then again, she’s not sure she’s ever been given a proper chance to have friends that aren’t coworkers or potential clients. Maybe here and there, but she realizes the world she came from is isolated and strange, and not how things typically work in a non-dysfunctional and hard setting like the camp. It does mean she’s at a loss for how to act here; what her purpose is, how she fits in, but she’s shrewd enough to see that others don’t know what the hell they’re doing either.

Walking around tends to help some. She’s picked herself out a cabin and has made a daily path in and out of the center of town in search of food and relative security, so she knows some of her neighbors by now. And while she hasn’t struck up a proper conversation with the lady sitting by her front door, she’s tried to be friendly with her nods and smiles and whatnot.

Today, for whatever reason, she pauses by the gate, half-buried in snow, and nods towards the carving in her hands.

“You’re always making something.”

That’s how people make friends, right?