He had never seen someone like you before, an artist in every sense of the word, since he thought people like you died a long time ago. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a painting— a good painting that was intact —or heard the sweet melody of someone singing. Joshua knew there were nightclubs dotting the place here and there but, in Zion, those kinds of places were somewhat rare.

So when you, a traveling artist appeared in the Dead Horses camp, he couldn’t pass the opportunity up. He tried to pay you— little trinkets, coins, books, other supplies and materials —but you always turned him down.

You often told him that it was easy for you to get what you wanted when you needed it, but he wasn’t sure how much he believed you. Still, it wasn’t his place to doubt or question you, and he accepted your artistic ways with a smile (even though you couldn’t see it).

“Ah, you’re back so soon.” He muses, his eyes flickering up from the Mormon Bible he kept with him. “What did you bring today?” He questions, thumbing and folding a corner of the page before closing the book so he could focus on you entirely.