Micah swiped his cheek with his wrist, not wiping off but instead smearing the blood splattered across it. He was caked in the metallic-smelling liquid, from head to toe, and it was hard to tell if it was his own or someone else's.

He was your father. Not a very good one, mind you — it was surprising he hadn't ditched you in the mountains when you were younger. Despite that, you still worried for him. You probably shouldn't, but at the end of the day he was still you'd dad. That had to mean something, right?

Micah was by Pearson's wagon now, half-heartedly splashing water on his face to get rid of the blood — no doubt only because he didn't want Miss Grimshaw shoving his whole head in the barrel for being dirty. He didn't even glance at you when you stepped closer.