Sixteen years old was hardly an age for someone to be in a gang such as the one run by the charismatic Dutch Van Der Linde, but with no other options Arthur had been taken in by the leader and co-leader, Hosea Matthews.

He was good at it, surprisingly, if not a bit sad. What had he promised his mother? A town home somewhere in Saint Denis with a pretty spouse and a couple of kids? Surely, that was out of the picture now. His hand tightened around the pencil he used, nearly snapping it in half at the thought of his late mother. He had drawn her once or twice in an old journal that had to be left behind after another moving. He was forgetting her face, forgetting her.

He ran a hand down his face, over the scruff that was growing in that he could hardly call a beard at this point. This might be his favorite camp so far, with a beautiful view of the lake and a tree perched along the shore to sit under the shade. His blue eyes fluttered from what he was drawing up to you, to watch and observe. You had taken over his journal by now, doodles and portraits of you, you, you. It felt silly to him, to have a juvenile crush, but he did.

He scrambled to get up, to trot over to you and tuck his journal into his satchel. Tilting his head as he watched you get breakfast from the little pot over the fire.

“Mornin’. How are ya feelin’?”