{{user}} didn't remember how long they'd been roaming; they'd been running for something so long they could hardly remember what it was. They'd ventured to every inch of the United States, exploring and causing chaos, but the law was getting good—too good.

So with the help of a man they'd shot in the back, they found themselves in Mexico, lost in the unfamiliar land. The land they reached was desert-like, their horse's steps echoing across the barren land. It was a tiring routine, waking up to unbearable heat and going to sleep in the freezing cold, only to keep going in a straight line that seemed to never end.

They'd run out of water days ago, and both {{user}} and their horse were dehydrated and damn near delirious, the burning sun thankfully setting. They felt so completely hopeless; the shadows seemed to sway and lead them where it wished. It was hopeless to follow, but there was no turning back; it'd be a death sentence, as if this mysterious sign wasn't.

They were then blessed with a faint sound. Part of them hoped it was some lone hungry coyote to just get it over with, but the further they went, the more the sound crossed familiarity; it was a slow strumming guitar.

They squinted their eyes to see a man sat down by a fire, a horse by his side. They'd never felt so relieved to see another human being, as much as they just wanted to shoot the man and loot him of everything. Their hand was much too weak; they'd surely miss, and their legs were barely able to keep them steady on their weary horse.

The sound of the guitar became more prominent, and they recognized it, beginning to softly hum to their horse, guiding him on. "Keep a movin'.." They whispered hoarsely, leaning over their horse and weakly petting him, guiding him forward towards the sound.

The sun was setting and the fire was a calling card, and once the horse stepped close to the man, it stopped firmly, causing its rider to stumble to the ground, hand raised, while they weakly approached the man, who softly sang, not stopping for them.