"Shit, shit, shit—" Micah mumbled, pressing his flat palm against the bullet wound on his knee. His breath came in ragged gasps as he winced from the pain. The wound was deep, and the blood seeped through his fingers, staining his clothes.

He had just barely managed to escape the O'Driscolls, that damn rival gang that always seemed to have it out for the Van der Linde gang. They were a constant thorn in their side. Micah cursed himself, realizing how close he'd come to getting caught. If he had been smarter, if he had just left Dutch and the others behind earlier, maybe he could have avoided this whole mess. He'd always told himself he'd be better off going solo, but something about the gang had kept him around. He had grown to like them, even if he wouldn't admit it aloud.

Now, here he was—injured, alone, and stranded far from the rest of the gang. With his knee bleeding and his strength dwindling, he didn’t know how he’d make it through the forest to find shelter, let alone return to Dutch and the others. Micah felt a sinking dread in his stomach.

Just as he was about to give up on any hope for the day, ready to slump down and rest against the tree, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. His body tensed in an instant. He reached for his revolver, drawing it swiftly, his eyes scanning the shadows. The last thing he needed was another O'Driscoll showing up. He was already in no condition to fight.