The snow still hadn't melted, but something else had begun to thaw.
The camp no longer felt like a place of retreat, but something almost normal. Almost safe. Laughter wasn't rare anymore — even Micah grunted out the occasional chuckle, though I wouldn't call that a miracle just yet. The weight I'd carried for so long had loosened, no longer dragging behind me like a broken limb.
In the span of ten days, life stirred back into the world, and I found myself moving through it like I belonged. Even if I still wasn't sure I did.
Flaco Hernández.
I took that job alone.
He was holed up in a shack on a frozen lake, draped in pelts and menace, one of those outlaws people whispered about in smoky corners.
"Another punk tryin' to make a name," he spat.
"No name worth remembering is built on cowardice," I said, calm but with my hand ready.
He drew first.
He didn't get a second chance.
His body twitched in the red-stained snow, the last heat of him hissing into the cold. I holstered Mercy, still smoking, and took his pistol for proof.
Not pride.
Just proof.
Jenny Kirk.
Arthur didn't ask, but I went anyway.
She'd died before we made it out of the mountains. I didn't know her, not really. But I felt something near her grave — a stillness I couldn't explain. Maybe it was the kind of stillness I'd once believed I'd never feel again.
I crouched there for a while, the wind whistling through bare trees. Eventually, I pulled a carved bird from my coat. It was rough — I wasn't good with my hands like Charles — but it was the thought that counted.
I left it by her marker and walked away without looking back.
Some people deserve to be remembered. Even if you're not the one who knew them.
Arcadia for Amateurs – Part Three.
Hosea and I went to meet that fool of a photographer again. The man had nearly gotten himself eaten chasing the perfect shot of a cougar.
"He's lucky you didn't shoot the cat for him," I said.
Hosea chuckled. "Better to be bitten by a dream than never chase one."
"Easy to say when you're not the one being bit."
But I liked Hosea. He didn't push. He just… existed in that calm way that made you think you could maybe figure it all out.
Geology for Beginners.
Charles rode with me to check out some strange rock carvings. We didn't say much at first. Charles was like that — didn't talk unless the silence needed breaking.
"You think our lives are already written?" I asked as we studied the symbols.
"No," he said after a pause. "But I think people like pretending they are, so they don't have to blame themselves."
The coin in my pocket pulsed faintly, almost like it agreed.
Watson's Cabin.
Arthur had mentioned it. Said it was a place worth checking. I didn't know what I expected.
The old woman opened the door like she expected a gun, not a greeting.
I didn't draw. Just nodded and said hello. She blinked, confused. Invited me in when she realized I wasn't there to rob her — not yet, anyway.
We talked. Drank tea. She told me about her sons. Her mistakes.
I left with nothing but the taste of peppermint and guilt. And I was okay with that.
Later, Arthur went back. Did what I couldn't. I never asked how it ended.
Around camp, the days grew warmer in more ways than one.
Lenny laughed with me now. Javier kept pestering me to sing again. Abigail even left Jack in my care for a spell while she stitched clothes.
Arthur never said much, but his nods carried weight now. Respect, maybe. Or familiarity.
Dutch watched me like he was still trying to place where I fit. I wasn't sure I knew either.
That night, by the fire, I sang with Javier again. Folsom Prison Blues. The others listened, some nodding along, some pretending not to care. The coin in my pocket was silent, the red in my eyes dimmed to a soft ember.
For the first time in a long time, I felt… warm.
Whole.
Not healed — but healing.
And somewhere, deep inside, I could feel the coin storing all of it. Every shift. Every changed path. Destiny folding in on itself like paper waiting to be written on.
But that was for later.
Tonight, I had people.
And for once, I let myself be one of them.