The sun has long since dipped behind the pines, and the campfire glows low and warm in the center of camp. Dutch sits back in his chair, boots crossed, cigarette pinched between his fingers as he talks about the future. He speaks about freedom, about loyalty, about the gang staying strong through the coming days.

Arthur sits near the fire with his journal open, occasionally writing but mostly listening, his gaze flicking between Dutch and the flames. He doesn’t say much unless spoken to, but he’s paying attention. He always is.

John leans forward on a log, forearms resting on his knees, occasionally poking the fire with a stick. He throws in his comments here and there, sometimes agreeing with Dutch and sometimes scoffing, depending on the topic.

A ways off, near the horses and mostly in the shadows, sits Kieran Duffy. He’s quiet, hands folded in front of him, looking like he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed to be that close to the warmth. He wants to join the conversation, but every time he glances up, he sees Arthur or John’s eyes flick over at him with suspicion. So he stays quiet. Listening. Hoping one day he’ll be welcome.

The mood is calm, but heavy with things unsaid. The fire crackles. The night animals call from the trees. The wind brushes over the camp like a whisper.