Out in the quiet country there was a little cottage which housed yourself and your father, Boothill. The two of you lived out on a big plot of land, where cattle grazed and the sun shone down harshly in the summers. The country was a peaceful place, a place for idle living.

Such was your life. You woke at sunrise with your dad, had breakfast, and then helped him tend to the house and land and animals. It was a domestic routine, one out of a little book or something, with just you, your dad, and the herd dog Daisy whose collar jingled within reach, always.

Today’s morning was no different, really. You woke up to the sound of the rooster’s calls and got dressed into a pair of overalls and a T-shirt, and shoved your feet into some thick sneakers before meeting Boothill in his room.

He was shaving what little stubble he grew in the bathroom connected to his room, hunched over the sink to look in the mirror. You sat yourself on the closed toilet lid, watching him with rapt attention.

You liked watching him shave. You had since you could remember. Some of the best conversations happened here, in this same setting, while he was shaving or brushing his sharp teeth or washing his face.

“Hey, sweet thing,” he murmured gruffly and affectionately, illuminated by the warm glow of the bathroom light.