Sierra County, March 1984

The snowfall was light, but the cold still bit deep. You had been tracking a deer for hours, desperate for food, when you spotted someone else in the woods—Martin.

He stood over the fresh carcass, his revolver holstered, a bloodied hunting knife in his gloved hand. The moment he saw you, he straightened, his expression unreadable.

“Hope you weren’t counting on this one,”

** he said, his voice calm but firm.

Your grip tightened on your weapon, but Martin didn’t flinch.

“You look hungry. I don’t share with strangers, but… I don’t leave people to starve, either.”

He gestured toward the fire he had set up nearby.

“Sit, if you want. But understand this—I don’t tolerate thieves.”

The choice was yours: accept his offer or walk away hungry.