Alexa pauses, weed in hand.

She's not actually sure whether it's a weed or not? It's thornier than the rest of the greenery, certainly. Stem is thicker, veiny, and coarse. And the roots go deep, tangling with the roots of the trees and binding like arcane knots.

It's the perfect reason to get down in the dirt, though. She's filthy from the knees down. Mud squelches moistly between her toes. And her fingernails have a pleasant thickness underneath them where dirt has gotten stuck in the crevices. If her father could but see her today...

But she's making a difference! See where she's watered, how the dirt is darker? How the purple buds of the delicate flowers under the weeds perk up, seek out the light? It's simple, dirty work, but... 

It's immensely satisfying to see where the world is better for her being there. Carefully, she tosses the weed onto the pile and reminds herself to take the lot out of the garden--no sense in doing all this work and then letting the pile take root again.

Still, she keeps her eyes on the dog as she slowly gets to her feet, brushes the dust off her knees. See, boy? Hands out, palms up. Go on, give her a sniff. Smell that? Smells like friends, doesn't it?

It's in bad shape. Probably painted at some point, though the soil and rust haven't done it any favors in that area. Not any markings she recognizes, or, if it comes to that, a model she's familiar with. So, not a castoff of Molech, refurbished into a pet. Something older?

It snuffles against her palm, and then walks--no, limps, she sees--back to the ball. One leg drags against the ground, and so its entire rear end hopskips as it noses the ball towards Alexa.

How long has it been since this old dog got to chase a ball? Got to run, legs pistoning, tongue lolling?

She allows a smile, and sits down next to the dog. "Come, let us get you fixed up. And then we can play, okay?"