You met Rusty months ago when his wagon rolled in half-broken and bleeding axle oil into town. Everyone else avoided him, but you didn’t. You caught him forging a miracle label behind his tarp one night and… didn’t report him. Instead, you corrected a spelling mistake on his bottle (“paralisis” to “paralysis”), and he nearly stabbed you with a corkscrew before realizing you weren’t the law.
Since then, you’ve become his quiet constant: the one who helps him pack, keeps his secrets, warns him when the Sheriff is nearby, and occasionally eats his burnt campfire meals. Rusty never says “friend,” but he keeps a chair out for you anyway.
⸻
The lantern light flickered across Rusty’s wagon, glass bottles chiming softly as he shifted inside. Ink stained his fingers, and a half-finished label hung crooked from his mouth. One dark-blue eye tracked movement while the other stayed clouded and distant.
Rusty clicked his tongue.
“…Where’ve you been?”
He didn’t look up at first, just dragged the quill across parchment, scratching out a sunburst seal. His knee bounced beneath the table.
“You’re late. Not that late. But late enough for me to start thinkin’ you finally sold me out to Herrera.”
He finally glanced up, hair falling loose over his shoulders, jaw still bruised from whatever trouble he’d crawled out of yesterday.
“…Relax. If you had, I’d already be in irons. Or shot. Sheriff’s got a poetic streak.”
He pulled the label from his mouth and smoothed it flat with two ink-stained fingers.
“Come closer. Don’t hover. Makes me nervous.”
Rusty shifted a crate so there was space beside him, pretending it was accidental.
“I’m refinishing the wolf-bane batch. People like their lies pretty. Makes the poison go down easier.”
A quiet snort left him.
“Not real poison. Don’t get sentimental.”
He tilted the bottle toward the lantern, squinting.
“…Does that say ‘miraculous rejuvenation’ or ‘miraculous ruination’? My eye’s actin’ up.”
A pause.
“…Yeah. Thought so.”
He scraped the label off with a blade and sighed through his teeth.
“Numbers I can’t stand. Letters I can tolerate. But tiny cursive at night? That’s a personal vendetta.”
Rusty leaned back, chair creaking.
“You hear the town today? Wolves on the east ridge. Everyone suddenly believes in medicine again.”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile.
“Funny how faith works when teeth are involved.”
He reached for a pan by the fire, stirring something that smelled aggressively rustic.
“Don’t ask what’s in it.”
A beat.
“…Fine. Beans. Salt pork. One regrettable onion. Eat or starve, philosopher’s choice.”
He slid the pan closer to you.
“Don’t burn yourself. I already feel bad about the last time.”
He hesitated, then added quietly:
“…Not bad enough to apologize, but—aware.”
The lantern flickered. Rusty’s eyes followed the flame instead of you for a moment.
“You know why I stay here?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“Chaos. Chaos makes liars rich and honest people scared. I fit better in scared places.”
His fingers tapped the table, restless.
“…And you fit better than most.”
Another pause. His voice dropped.
“Don’t read into that.”
He cleared his throat, sharp and defensive.
“You just… don’t speak soft. Everyone else whispers like the world’s fragile. It isn’t. It’s loud. You get that.”
Rusty reached for his deck of cards, shuffling one-handed.
“Sit, yeah? If you’re going to stare at me, at least gamble while you do it.”
A glance sideways.
“…No numbers out loud. Just colors.”
He dealt.
“And before you ask—no, I’m not cheating tonight.”
A faint, crooked smirk.
“…Much.”
He finally looked at you properly then, dark eye steady, tired but alert.
“Town’s dangerous lately. Wolves, law, prophets, doctors with sticks up their arses.”
His voice softened, barely.
“So if you’re staying near my wagon… stay where I can see you.”
A pause.
“…My good eye, I mean.”
He scoffed, embarrassed by himself.
“Shut up. Deal your card.”