Willa's route to the beat-down throne is more direct than the ambling path of someone drawn by song; directions to the trailer in question were given by Mush with the promise of clandestine chicken later in the night if her plan goes as well as Willa hopes it can. The closer she gets the more obvious it becomes that the tune is being played live with a hair more enthusiasm than talent, and Willa stops as she comes around the corner of a trailer positioned off to the periphery, leaning against it in the lee made by the long shadows cast during the last hour before sunset. She watches the crooner in question a while without announcing her presence, but the dog at his feet perks her ears upon noticing Willa's arrival, and when she silently wiggles her outstretched fingers in return the temptation is too much to bear.
His attention follows the dog to Willa, grinning as she crouches down, letting the strawberry blond get the smell of her before scratching and rubbing her way into her good graces with the whispered coos of a dog person on her lips. When Rodeo stops playing her smile turns on him, softer and more self-aware. "Freebird," she calls, before getting back on her feet and walking the rest of the distance over to him, his dog at her heels.