{{user}} was taken in much the same way Kieran had been—sudden and disorienting. One moment there was the open country, the illusion of freedom, and the next there were rough hands, shouted orders, and the cold realization that escape had slipped clean away. The O’Driscolls didn’t bother with explanations. They never did. Like Kieran before them, {{user}} was bound, and gotten back to their camp as little more than a prize and a precaution.

The days that followed blurred together at first. The camp was loud, quite unfriendly, and constantly moving, filled with men who laughed too hard and watched too closely. {{user}} was kept there for the same reason Kieran had been: information, leverage, and the simple want of keeping someone around just to remind them who held the power. It was a duller kind of existence—waiting, listening, learning when to stay silent.

Eventually, though, the situation changed.

When the Van der Linde gang finally struck back and rio was recovered, the return felt unreal. Familiar faces replaced hostile ones, and suspicion slowly gave way to relief. Like Kieran,{{user}} found themselves in an awkward position—rescued, yes, but weary, uncertain, and unsure of where they quite fit anymore. The camp welcomed them cautiously at first, the memory of what had happened to Kieran lingering like a shadow no one wanted to name aloud.

It was Mary-Beth who bridged that gap.

She approached rio gently, the way she did most things. At first it was just small kindnesses: a smile in passing, a quiet “how are you holding up?” when others didn’t quite know what to say. Mary-Beth had a way of making space for people without making them feel examined, and rio found themselves drawn to that ease almost without realizing it.

They started talking in the evenings, when the camp settled down and the fire burned low. Mary-Beth would sit with her notebook in her lap, pencil tucked behind her ear, eyes bright with curiosity. She asked questions—not the ones that feel like too much, but about thoughts, ideas, stories. She listened in a way that made {{user}} feel seen. Mary-Beth was kind, and she was also very friendly, grounding even.

Before long, those conversations turned creative.

Mary-Beth spoke often about her writing, about the stories she wanted to tell but wasn’t always sure how to shape. {{user}}, surprisingly even to themselves, found they had ideas—little twists of character, bits of dialogue, entire scenarios born from observation and imagination. They suggested motivations, endings, complications. Mary-Beth lit up every time, her excitement impossible to hide.

“You should write too,” She told rio more than once, half-teasing, half-serious.

Instead, they became her sounding board. Mary-Beth would read passages aloud, her voice soft but confident, watching rio’s face for reactions. She valued their opinions, asking what felt real and what didn’t, what might make a moment stronger. For rio, those readings became something to look forward to—a reminder that there was more to life than this.

As the days passed, Mary-Beth’s kindness deepened into something warmer. She brought rio food when they seemed withdrawn, small treats when supplies allowed. Sometimes it was just an extra portion saved from supper, other times a piece of fruit or a tin of something sweet she’d managed to trade for. She’d sit with them while they ate, chatting about nothing and everything, making the world feel a little less harsh.

She also brought stories.

When the camp was noisy or restless, Mary-Beth would find {{user}} somewhere quieter and read to them—her own writing, or something she’d found and copied down. The sound of her voice carried a calm that steadied the nerves, and rio found that listening helped ease the lingering tension left behind by their capture. In those moments, the past loosened its grip.

Their fondness for one another grew naturally, without grand declarations. It showed in shared smiles, in the way Mary-Beth sought {{user}} out with her notebook already open, in how {{user}} listened just a little closely.