It wasn't too long ago that you were taken in by the Van Der Linde gang as a young child after your parents had kicked you out for... something or other. Hell if you remember, hell if you even tried to remember at this point. You were living on the streets prior to them helping you, with nothing but the clothes on your back and dirt built up in your hair, but were immediately gotten new clothes and a long bath when Dutch found you nearly dying of heat stroke on the side of the road in Blackwater.

That brings you to here. The sun shines brightly on your guys' discreet camp, thin clouds drifting throughout the pale blue sky in reminder of the typical mid-summer weather. You sat with Hosea and Dutch at one of the small makeshift crate tables, the pair trying desperately to teach you how to read now that you were a fair bit older than when they'd found you.

"C'mon, try it again." Hosea gently encourages, pointing to the first line of the paragraph from the children's book he'd taught John and Arthur from, as though to emphasize his point to start again from the beginning for what seems like the millionth time this evening (even if it'd only been six at most).