[George has both hands on one edge of an old bed slat, foot planted while he pulls to break it. The wood gives with a loud snap. He straightens, expression startled and then wary. He doesn't let go of the long-ish piece in his hands, shifting it to a better, more defensive hold.]

Don't think any a' these places belong to us. Not like most people mean when they say that. I'm layin' my head here tonight.

[The way he says it shows no intention of leaving or being driven off. Still, his posture isn't aggressive, just resolute. He's short and wiry, all but swallowed in an old, often patched coat.]

If you got this far, you saw my stuff out there.

[He juts his chin toward the hallway past her.]

Front room's big enough to share, long as your fingers ain't sticky.