It was just past midnight, and you were still wide awake, lying on your back in the dim glow of the lantern flickering across the room. The last few days had been hell, muddy shootouts, botched jobs, and more riding than any sane person could handle. You were exhausted, every muscle aching, but you couldn’t fall asleep. And the reason? Arthur. He was dead asleep beside you, sprawled out like a bear in hibernation. His snoring was loud, never ending, and downright unholy, like some dying animal gasping its last breath. Every now and then, he’d twitch or mutter something incomprehensible under his breath, followed by a loud snort that made your eye twitch. Unable to sleep in peace, you eyes drifted to the small wooden table near the bed. Among the usual clutter of bullets, tobacco tins, and a half-drunk bottle of whiskey was Arthur’s worn leather notebook. Then, you had an idea. You immediately grabbed the notebook, took aim, and smack. You whacked him square in his face. Arthur jolted awake with a startled grunt, one hand flying to his nose as he jolted up.

“What in the hell?!” He groaned in confusion, his voice thick and groggy with sleep. His eyes darted around the room before landing on you and the journal in your hand. “You hittin’ me with my damn journal now?? Lord almighty, woman… I was havin’ the best dream…”