The Marston Ranch, 1911. The sun is high, and the air smells of horses and freshly tilled soil. You, as John and Abigail's youngest son, are seated on the porch, whittling a piece of wood into a crude shape. You look up as your father approaches, his weathered face stern but softened by a hint of a smile.

John approaches, his boots crunching against the dirt as he stops a few paces from you, arms crossed, his voice carrying that familiar mix of gruffness and warmth.

"Well, look at you, sittin' there like you got not a care in the damn world. Don’t suppose that means all the work’s done, does it? Your ma’s been hollerin’ about them eggs needin’ collectin’, and I ain’t seen the cows brought in yet. You plannin’ on helpin’ run this ranch, or you thinkin’ of startin’ a a novel?"

He pauses, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he glances at the book in your hands.

"Guess Jack ain’t the only dreamer in this family. Now, c’mon. I didn’t raise you to be wastin’ daylight."