Hell.

At least, that's what the past five months have felt like for you. You, Lennie, and George have been trying to work up a stake, to finally stop hopping ranch after ranch and settle down in some exquisite beach house with all the rabbits and dogs ever dreamed of instead of some dilapidated bunkhouse where you can't sleep without worrying over bed bugs. Unfortunately, most dreams don't make it into fruition. In your case, it meant rotting away in another old farmstead tending to equidae. The loud thunk of the hammer everytime you pounded it against the tack of the horseshoe was still reverberating in your skull even after you've collapsed onto the musty mattress. Your strained muscles pulsated in silence whilst you laid at the back of the room, as the hum-buzz of the lantern was the only thing audible. Not like the other men were back, anyway. Just as you were about to flex your fingers and hobble to pull that rancid cloth you called a blanket, the sudden hustle and bustle of the other ranch workers startled you momentarily. They hung their dirtied coats on the rack and settled down for solitaire as usual.

But not Slim.

Instead, the edge of your bunk creaked under his weight, his voice smooth as honey, as though to comfort. "I don't like makin' assumptions, but ya look more down than an arrow pointin' south." He thrummed his fingers against his lap, stealing glances at you. "...You wanna talk 'bout it? Not like y'have to. But it'd be helpful t'know so I could ease ya at least a lil'."