She plucks as she listens to his drawl, his story, pulling the feathers that are only partially eased by the hot bath. There was no shame in any of it, even a hint of pride at the way they had managed to avoid being fit into the 'system.' There is more order in the city to be sure, but the other shelters aren't in open, violent rebellion to steal supplies from one another, to kill as many as they're able. Whether or not it was the police who'd nicknamed the Dog King - Willa doesn't doubt it, she's heard stranger, more grandiose nicknames applied to casefiles with unknown perpetrators - it does seem fitting, at least when Bode had spoken about him.
Willa's fingers wave away the offered cigarettes and then flick feathers at him. "I think there's something that I should tell you, if you haven't already heard it from someone else." Build trust in a circle of those you loved, and shelter your family from destruction. Rodeo's was hand-picked rather than the luck of the genetic lottery that had given her Cal, but the two of them are running the same game from different angles.
"I came out here for Bode. I'm not -- it's in the past," Willa asserts in the most succinct way possible. "But I didn't know he was in Austin until I got here. I drove the cows down for my uncle, bringing them to my brother, and then I found out he'd been keeping this all a secret. To keep me from getting involved." She flexes her fingers stiff from plucking, passes the pot of bird and feathers for him to take a turn. "He works in the Capitol."