[of course he wouldn't know—about neither america nor s'mores, so to assume it is where she is from doe snot derive any thoughts from her to think lesser of him. thancred will pick up a thin branch to stoke the fire, all the while wanda's hands become surrounded in a swirl of scarlet.

a tray appears atop her hands, carrying with them all that is necessary to make s'mores: marshmallows, chocolate bars, graham crackers. this she places on the camping table to her side, standing up and walking towards him, a large marshmallow her offer.]

You must cook it for a while, in the fire. [she points—] Off the end of the stick. Do not burn it. [deciding to take a seat near him, she settles beside him, waiting for the next step to follow. surely she could have conjured a ready-to-eat s'more, but half the fun is the experience of making it.] America is where my friends were from. I am from a different continent—different ideas of 'camping fun'.

[with a small smile, she turns back to the fire.]

We have much scarier scary stories where I am from anyway, in my opinion.