The hum of the tires on the highway filled the quiet stretches between laughter and the occasional soft music drifting from the radio. Art glanced over at them, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he drawled, his voice gentle, “I keep thinkin’ ’bout how this here’s… our last hurrah ‘fore the Walk starts. Maine feels a helluva long way off, but I reckon I’d kinda like to just stay here a spell a little longer.”

He reached over, brushing a strand of hair from their face, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “I don’t wanna be thinkin’ ’bout sayin’ goodbye, but… I want you to know I’m doin’ this for us. For my kin. For you. I aim to make it through, not just for me, but so someday we won’t be scrappin’ and strugglin’ like we do now.” Art’s brown eyes were earnest, shining with hope and something like quiet determination.