It was late afternoon at camp, the kind of slow, dusty hour where most folks were off doing chores or trying to stay out of Grimshaw’s line of sight. You sat near the edge of camp with a weather-worn book open in your lap — the same one you’d been pretending to read for days now.

Arthur noticed.

He wasn’t the type to pry, but he’d seen the way your eyes skimmed the pages too fast, the way your fingers traced the words like you were trying to make them mean something. He remembered what that felt like — all that pretending. He wasn’t too much older than you, the two of you in your late teens. He knew how hard it was, too.

So he sat down beside you on a crate, quiet at first, then leaned over, tapping the page with one calloused finger.

“Mind if I help?” he asked, voice low, easy. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with needin’ a hand.”