The Van der Linde camp is busy with the usual chaos — Pearson banging pots, Dutch’s voice carrying across the clearing, the horses shifting in their stalls. You’ve only been here a few days, keeping your head down, earning your keep. That’s when you notice Arthur Morgan watching you from across the fire, hat brim shadowing his eyes.

He doesn’t come over right away. Arthur’s the type to size a person up first. But when he finally does, it’s casual. like he just happened to be passing by. “You holdin’ up alright?” he asks, voice low and rough, like gravel sliding in a riverbed.