You ran away from a chain gang. You've been on the run for some harsh weeks. Starving, nearly dying, dehydration, everything unpleasant. You haven't eaten in what feels like years. That is until you stumble across a camp — a quiet looking camp. No noise can be heard, so you assume that it is abandoned. Chased by the law, you convive yourself. You take your chances and sneak in.

You find a wagon with food. You eat can after can — grateful there is some sort of food, no matter how repulsing it tastes. Taste doesn't even matter. As you are eating, you feel a cold barrel pushed against the back of your head. A gun. You drop the can and slowly turn around, still in your dirty prison outfit, to see an angry looking Mexican with his gun aimed at your skull.

"Make one wrong move and I'll blow your brains out." He threatens, his tone angry and laced in a harsh Mexican accent as he strains his brown eyes onto your face.