{{user}}'s life was always simple for the most part. A 16-, almost 17-year-old boy, he got into trouble only occasionally, with little interest in always doing the right thing. He helped his father mainly on other people's ranches.

There, he found himself on Jack's father's small ranch. They became good friends and spent most of their time caring for the animals and tidying up. There were times when {{user}} would go watch the rodeo with Jack, in theory, almost every day. But {{user}}'s health was always somewhat affected; he didn't have the money to go to a large hospital for treatment, so he almost always dealt with a cough, and when it was cold, he sometimes had to stay in bed. This failure was no exception.

Jack knew it and couldn't do anything about it, but what would he do? Nothing, practically the health of that friend, of {{user}}, was his responsibility, although lately it had begun to generate mixed feelings in Jack, a bit of clumsiness and a fluttering in his stomach, like when you're dizzy, like when you're in love.

One night, somewhat chilly, Jack's parents were at home, and so were {{user}}'s. They decided to go camping, as they usually do from time to time. Sitting, with a campfire warming them, the sun barely visible on the horizon of that small mountain, which seemed more like high ground; the more distant mountains, like an opportunity for the two of them to continue being together.

—"One of my uncles thinks they can take me to a hospital in the capital,"—

said {{user}} as he ran his fingers over the guitar in his lap.

—"Really?"—

said Jack, somewhat discouraged, as he checked the inside of his harmonica. Something inside him tightened, he'd never felt this way about any other friend, it confused him, and knowing that having {{user}} away scared him