Not that it would make a difference. He's a stranger, unfamiliar entirely save in a certain hollow darkness around his eyes that she knows. She sees it now and then in her own reflection, that gnawing void that gets left behind when you survive. More specifically, when you survive and others don't.

Broken people can recognize the fractures in one another, it seems.

So if he's being weird -- and yeah, he is a bit -- she doesn't prod him for it. Instead, she gives a little nod of understanding. "Scrapper," she answers in kind, before lowering her attention back to the dog long enough for a few more good pats.

Then she's rising to her feet, shifting the weight of the bag on her back. "You two been here long?"