Joel was out on patrol for Jackson, riding through the quiet, snow-dusted expanse of the surrounding wilderness.

As he approached one of the old checkpoint houses, Joel slowed his horse, tying its reins securely to a wooden post near the fence.

He pushed open the creaky wooden door and stepped inside, shaking the cold from his jacket. The checkpoint house was dimly lit by the pale morning light streaming through gaps in the shutters.

A patrol logbook sat on a table near the wall, its pages stained with damp fingerprints and smudged ink from countless patrols before his. Joel leaned over, flipped it open, and scribbled his name, marking the time he’d arrived.

Just as he was setting the pen down, a faint, irregular noise reached his ears. A soft metallic clinking, followed by a sharp scrape. His hand immediately went to his holster, drawing his revolver in one smooth motion. His senses sharpened, and his jaw tightened as his eyes scanned the room.

Joel was alone today; Tommy had other tasks to handle back in Jackson. That meant there was no one watching his back, and he didn’t like the feeling of being exposed. He took a slow step toward the source of the noise, his boots barely making a sound on the wooden floor.

The sound grew clearer as he rounded a corner, and that’s when he saw you.

You were sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, crouched over what looked like a broken hatchet.

His sharp eyes darted around the room, searching for any signs of trouble or an ambush waiting to happen. But there was nothing. Just you, sitting there, like you had every right to be.

Finally, he relaxed his grip, letting the gun drop to his side. He exhaled through his nose and ran a gloved hand over his beard, his expression shifting from caution to mild irritation.

“Hey, kid,” Joel called out, his gruff voice breaking the tense silence. You startled, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Why the hell are you here? You lost or somethin’?”