[ Malia's gone through the motions of picking up her clothes and putting those on. The key she's been given rests in her pocket along with the address it belongs to: she hasn't been there, and the thought of doing so weighs heavily on her. When she finally goes, it'll lead to acceptance of the situation, and she's not sure if she's ready to accept.

She may even be blending in with the locals a bit, over sized plaid button-up shirt, denim shorts, and shin high boots on. She hasn't bothered to look in a mirror, much less find a brush though, so she's got bedhead rocking too. There's a backpack slung over her shoulder, containing close to nothing.

She's not feeling this place, at all, and she's hardly close to being a helper of others but when she sees the sight before her, it makes her approach. Brows together, she frowns at him, waving a hand over him. ] I bet there's clothes for you at the police station, unless...that's...what you...wear. [ Awkward. She blinks once. ] Or you live here and walk around like that. [ Maybe. That thought spurs another, her expression growing pressing. ] Do you live here? [ He looks pretty comfy and settled, if not disoriented. ]