So here you were. Running through a pasture of cattle while trying to mask your quickened steps with the moo’s and groans of the livestock as you crept toward this fat old bastards house— saddle bags slung over your shoulders. Some drunk moron spoiled a tip about a farmer sitting on a lot of cash.

Watching John with wide eyes as he tries to squirm through an open window, snatching a few bits and pieces from the man’s bedside— Only to make the man to stir in his rest.