One evening, like so many others before, you were sitting around the scout campfire with you, Javier, Hosea, Charles and Arthur, and like so many others before, everyone was telling small stories about their lives. Hosea told about the time he almost got hanged, Uncle about some time he spent in Africa (if it was even true to begin with, lord knows how he likes to spin tales), and Javier simply tuned his guitar as he listened to everyone speak. Eventually, at some point or other, a more than comfortable silence washed over the group, the only sound being the light strumming as Javier tuned the deeper notes on his acoustic and the quiet crackling coming from the warm, orange fire sat in the middle of everyone.