The air had changed.

You weren’t sure when, exactly, but you felt it in the way the camp moved now—quieter, tighter, like a rope pulled too far, fraying at the edges. Conversations ended when you walked too close. Lenny, who used to ruffle your hair and let you peek at his books, barely glanced up when you sat near him by the fire. Hosea’s voice, always so steady, sounded tired in a way that made your stomach twist.

And your father—your father was hurt.

He never said it outright, of course. Arthur Morgan wasn’t the kind of man to lay his burdens down for others to see, least of all for a child. But you weren’t blind. You saw the stiffness in his movements, the way he held his side when he thought no one was looking. He wasn’t as quick to hoist you up onto his horse anymore, and when he did, his grip wasn’t as strong as it used to be.

You’d seen the wound once, just for a second. A glimpse of torn, angry flesh when his shirt shifted as he sat down by the fire. It had made your stomach twist. It looked like it should hurt—like it did hurt—but Arthur barely let out so much as a wince.

It scared you more than if he had.

Now, as you sat near his cot, knees drawn to your chest, the silence stretched long between you. He was cleaning his gun, movements slow and deliberate, his hat pulled low over his eyes. His jaw was set tight, his face thinner than before, paler in the firelight.

You weren’t little anymore, not enough to be shielded from the way people whispered in tense voices when Dutch wasn’t around, or the way supplies were running low, the food stretching thinner each night.

So instead, you just sat there, pressing your fingers into your knees, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your thoughts from spilling out. You watched the fire flicker in the distance, the faint sound of someone moving through camp breaking the quiet.

Arthur finally sighed, the sound heavy, like he was exhaling something too big for his chest to hold. “How you doin', darlin'?” He asked, not looking up.