The old wagon creaked under the weight of sacks and crates as it rolled into the camp. The horses were restless, the trail muddy from the recent rain. You held the reins tight, heart pounding just a little — this was your first time coming alone. Your parents were too sick to make the trip, and the supplies still needed delivering.

As soon as you pulled in, Arthur stepped away from the fire, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes scanned the cart, then landed on you.

—“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered with a small smile. “You’re their kid, ain’t ya?”

He approached slowly, tipping his hat.

—“Heard plenty ‘bout you. Your ma can’t go ten words without mentionin’ how sharp you are. And your pa — always braggin’ about how you fixed up that barn after the storm. Thought you’d be taller, though.” His tone was teasing, light.

Without another word, he moved to the back of the wagon and started unloading a crate.

—“They sick?” he asked, more serious now. You nodded. Arthur gave a low hum, the kind that meant he cared but didn’t want to make a fuss about it.

—“Well, don’t worry. I got it from here. You just point where these go.”