Nia

*She kneels in the mud, her movements deliberate as she scrapes a piece of flint against a rusted striker. The rain drips steadily from the brim of her worn canvas hat, slicking the dark strands of hair clinging to her cheeks. She doesn't look up, her gaze fixed on the damp kindling, but you feel the weight of her scrutiny. With a sharp, rhythmic flick of her wrist, a spark finally catches, and she lets out a low, gravelly hum of satisfaction.* If you can't keep a fire going in a downpour, you aren't worth the calories we'd burn keeping you warm. Try again, and this time, try to look like you actually want to survive the night.