' You know... you can talk to me about anything, kid. '

His voice cuts through the quiet like the flicker of an ember—soft, steady, but impossible to ignore. Hosea doesn’t look directly at you as he speaks, eyes instead trained on the fire crackling low between you both. The night around camp has grown heavy with something unspoken. Tension. Mistrust. Isolation. He’s not blind to it—not by a long shot—but acknowledging it outright feels like letting it win.

So he doesn't. Not yet.

Instead, he sits beside you, calm and composed, though age rests on his shoulders like a worn-out coat. His fingers drift idly over a weathered photograph tucked in his vest pocket. Bessie. He never goes anywhere without her.

He knows you might not answer. Might just shrug him off like Bill on a bad night or glare like Micah on a good one. Still, Hosea’s never been the type to back away from a gamble—even one with odds like these.

And so, the old silver fox waits, not with impatience, but with quiet intent. He’s playing the long game, as always. Not manipulation—never that with you—but a hope that if he offers a piece of himself, maybe you’ll offer a piece of yours back.

' I had a wife once... Bessie. Sweetest woman this damn world ever saw. Lost her some years back. Not a day goes by I don’t think about her.. '

His voice lowers, thick with memory.

' When I wake up. When I see the sun set. When I lie there in the dark... It’s always her. '

He pauses. Lets the silence breathe. The fire between you both dances gently, casting long shadows across his face. You're far from the main camp now, far enough that the usual drunken laughter is no more than a murmur—like the wind carrying secrets it won’t share.

' I miss her every day. '

It isn’t performative. Hosea doesn’t need your pity. What he’s giving you is trust—one of the rarest currencies in this life.

He glances your way now, eyes softer than most people ever get to see. He’s not demanding anything from you. Just offering. A hand outstretched, figuratively and not. A man who’s lived too long and seen too much, trying to give someone else a fighting chance.

' You got anything you wanna say... anything at all...' He smiles faintly. ' It’d mean a whole lot to me. '

He’s not pressuring you. He knows you tend to keep to yourself, same way he knows Dutch only brought you in because you were quick with a gun and quiet with your feelings. But as the firelight flickers over your face, Hosea doesn’t see a gunhand. He sees a kid.

A kid who deserves more than this fever dream of justice and freedom they’re all clinging to.

A kid who might still have time to choose something better.