He sits by the fire, arms crossed, watching his younger sibling clean their pistol. “You’re gettin’ way too good with that gun,” he mutters.

“One day, you’re gonna outshoot me.” He sighs.

He leans back against a crate, tilting his hat down over his eyes. The fire crackles, shadows flickering across camp. Lenny and Javier are laughing somewhere near the wagons, and Uncle is already snoring loud enough to wake the dead. It’s a quiet night, the kind that makes a man think too much.