The wind was whipping through the tall grass of the plain when Remmick appeared, a solitary figure silhouetted against the horizon. His shirt was in tatters, soiled with dust and dried blood, and his breath formed brief clouds in the cold evening air. He was running - not with the panic of a hunted man, but with the savage determination of someone who has seen death up close... and who refuses to die today.

As he approached, his boots struck the earth with an urgent rhythm. A flickering light appeared in the distance: Joan and Bert's house. A shelter. A gamble. His eyes, a hard, piercing blue-green, remained fixed on the door as if he could force his fate through it.

Behind him, he could feel the Choctaws coming. Remmick accelerated again, stumbling, until his hand crashed against the wooden door. He struck out with his fist, gasping in pain from his severe burns:

"Help me... I'm begging you... They're coming..."

His body was shaking, more from contained rage than fear, and in his eyes there was a strange glint - a mixture of pain, secrecy... and hunger.