Jack stood on the docks, cigarette in hand, leaning over a railing, staring out into the lake and admiring the way the rippling waves reflected the clear sky above. After he had woken up, he spent the morning— well, early afternoon; he'd long since lost any real awareness of time— going on an aimless walk through town. He had hoped that the fresh air might help to alleviate the hangover he had woken up with and clear his head of the ever-present self-loathing he felt. And he supposed it had helped somewhat— with the hangover, at least. The self-loathing seemed to be incurable, scrawled onto his soul in permanent ink since before he could remember. It had always been there, but in the past couple of weeks, it had grown exponentially, demanding to be heard above all else.

Jack took a step back from the railing that separated him from the lake when its depths suddenly started to look so morbidly inviting. Closing his eyes, he rested against a wooden post and faced the sky, taking in the warmth of the late-summer sun on his cheeks. He raised his cigarette to his lips and tried to drown his thoughts in the sound of the water sloshing against the docks.

Unfortunately, it seemed his thoughts were impossible to drown; they only continued to swim around in his head like annoying little fish, nipping at his brain until he was forced to give them the attention they craved. Jack's grip on his cigarette tightened, and he scowled when one of them mentioned Edgar Ross. Thinking of the man still filled him with such intense hatred and anger; he had hoped that those feelings would die with Ross, but they hadn't. They hadn't even dulled in the slightest.

That day marked ten days since he had unloaded his revolver into the man and watched him float away down the San Luis River, staining the water with streaks of red. He had yet to hear anything about it, but every passing day filled him with anxiety. Surely, his family would have noticed he was missing by now. They seemed like nice people; how they could be related to such a massive piece of shit was a mystery to Jack. He felt a tiny pang of guilt in his chest as he wondered how they might have reacted when they realized Ross wasn't returning from his hunting trip. Did they know he was dead yet? Did they know that that mild-mannered young man asking after him was responsible?

No. I wasn't responsible, Jack interrupted himself, squashing the twinge of guilt he had felt before it had a chance to fester. He took another shaky drag of his cigarette. Ross's death was his own fault. Any grief his family felt was his own fault. He asked for it. He deserved it—

"Um, 'scuse me, mister?"

Jack blew a puff of cigarette smoke out of his nose and opened his eyes to find a scruffy boy, maybe about ten years old, staring up at him. He furrowed his eyebrows, a bit miffed by the interruption, and asked, "What?"

"You mind movin'? I got to stand there to sell my papers," the kid said, turning to the side to show him the tote full of newspapers slung over his shoulder.

Jack frowned. "Why can't ya stand five feet that way?" he asked harshly, pointing his cigarette in an arbitrary direction.

The boy shrank back a bit, clearly taken aback by Jack's unprovoked asperity. "W-Well, I… I always stand there. Lots of people walk by, and I…" the kid began stammering.

Jack let out an exasperated sigh as the boy continued babbling, though his irritation was directed more at himself than at the boy. He was just a kid; Jack had no good reason to subject him to his bitterness.

"Alright, I'll move," he grumbled with a roll of his eyes as he pushed himself off the post and stepped a couple of feet away. He threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his boot.

"Oh, t-thanks," the boy said, his eyebrows rising at Jack's sudden change of heart. The kid moved to occupy the spot then looked at him with hesitant gratitude. He pulled a newspaper out of his bag and held it out. "Say, you wanna paper?" he asked. "They's real interestin' lately. Well, my pa says they is anyway; I can't read so good, so he tells me all about 'em. Can you read, mister?"

The boy didn't wait for Jack to answer before he continued yapping:

"Pa says these ones is about the war in Europe started a couple months ago. I'm sure you must've heard about it by now. World's a crazy place, ain't it? I sure hope it stays over there. My pa says…"

Jack zoned out as the boy started to talk his ear off, going off on tangent after tangent about one thing or another. His pa hates the Germans— even more than he hates the English. His pa hates the Mexicans too. Hey, did you hear about what the president of Mexico did last month? The kid's ability to jaw on endlessly would have almost been impressive if it hadn't been so damn irritating.

But Jack still let him keep talking, staring blankly at him and occasionally glancing off to the side as he pretended to listen. The kid seemed excited about whatever he was talking about, and Jack didn't want to tear him down. He knew too well how disheartening it was to have your interests shot down all the time.

"...and now this week the paper's sayin' there's an old government man gone missin' in Mexico too. But my pa don't care. He says all them 'government clowns' is bastards anyways. He—"

"What?" Jack's heart froze in his chest, and his face paled. Suddenly, the kid had his undivided attention.

"What?" the boy echoed. "That's just what my pa says; I didn't mean to offend ya, mister. I—"

"You didn't," Jack assured with a quick shake of his head before the kid could start rambling on again. He was probably the last person who would ever be offended by that. Trying to hide the panic rising within him, he motioned to the newspaper in the boy's hand and asked, "How much were they?"

The boy flashed a toothless grin and bounced on his toes. "Five cents."

Jack shoved a hand into his pockets and cursed under his breath when he found nothing but a half-empty pack of cigarettes inside. He had left most of his things, including his money, in his room, not thinking he'd need any of it to go on a simple walk around town. Patting the outside of his pockets, he opened his mouth to apologize and tell the boy that he didn't have the money, but the boy spoke first:

"Y'know what, mister? You can just have it. I like you; you's a good listener." He shrugged before extending the newspaper out to him.

I didn't listen to eighty percent of what you said, kid, Jack thought. Though outwardly, he simply grabbed the paper and mumbled, "Alright, well thanks."

"Ain't no problem, mister," he responded. "Ma says I always gotta be kind, y'know? She says once when I was a baby, this man…" the boy started rambling on again.

"Yeah, that… that's really interesting," Jack cut him off, struggling to keep his voice even and his face neutral. "But I kinda gotta go."

"Oh, okay," the kid said, his tone falling. "Well, was nice to meet ya, mister."

Jack gave him a polite nod and turned away to leave the docks in search of a more private place to look over the newspaper.

He clutched the paper tightly in his hand, digging his nails into it as he crossed the street with his eyes fixed on the ground. His head snapped up, and he stumbled backwards when he was nearly run down by a wagon in his carelessness. The driver cursed at him, and Jack bowed his head again, quickening his steps toward a less busy area.

He eventually stopped around the corner of an old out-of-business shop. He lifted the paper, unfolded it, and began scanning the titles of the various articles. Most were about the war in Europe, a few about the increasing momentum of the temperance movement in West Elizabeth. Jack scoffed at the latter; he hated the temperance people.

He clenched his jaw when his eyes finally landed on the headline he was searching for near the bottom of the page:

RETIRED BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION AGENT MISSING IN MEXICO.

He had hoped he wouldn't actually find it— hoped that that kid was full of it; he even hoped that maybe he was just insane and hallucinated the kid. Anything would've been better than that article's existence being a reality. But it was a reality— one he now had no choice but to face.

He clutched the paper in his hands tighter and read it:

Retired Bureau of Investigation agent Edgar Ross was reported missing by his wife after failing to return from a hunting trip to Mexico with his brother, Phillip. He was last seen in the late afternoon hours of the 13th of August. Phillip Ross is the last known person to have seen Edgar Ross, but both he and Mrs. Ross reported an unknown young man approaching them in search of the retired agent. It is currently unknown whether the man ever made contact with Ross or if he was involved in his disappearance, but the Ross family is hopeful that locating him may lead to Edgar's safe return.

They described the man as being American, mid-twenties, approximately six feet tall, and of average build. He had shoulder-length dark hair and sported a mustache. He was wearing a tan-colored jacket, a red bandana, and a worn gray hat with a feather accent.

Any persons with any information on the whereabouts of Mr. Ross or the young man described above are strongly encouraged to report to the Blackwater Police Department and speak with lead investigator, Archer Fordham.

Jack lowered the paper after he reached the end of the article, and his eyes wandered away as he tried to process it. It was somehow worse than he had expected. He naively didn't think that his presence would be so heavily featured in the article— that he'd be described in such detail.

He caught his reflection in an adjacent shop window, his heart jumping into his throat as he realized just how closely he resembled the description in the paper. He hadn't made even the slightest effort to hide his identity; it had never crossed his mind. He still wore the same dirty clothes he had when he carried out his revenge: the tan jacket, the red bandana, the worn gray hat that he held so dear. The only things he had going for him were that they'd assumed he was older than he really was, and they didn't know his name yet.

But they were actively looking for him.

He spotted a man sitting on a bench across the street, also reading a newspaper, and his mind started racing as fast as his heart. Was he reading that article? Was he gonna look up, see Jack, and immediately put the pieces together? It was only a matter of time before someone did. He, unfortunately, wasn't exactly a nobody in town, nor was he regarded very positively.

While half of his mind panicked, the other half was apathetic. So what if they caught him? He wanted to die anyway, didn't he?

He thought he did. When he sat alone in his room, reeking of liquor and shame, he was certain he did. But then he would watch the sunset bathe the sky in marvelous color and feel the cool breeze tickle his skin; he would pet a stray dog that had come up to him in the street; he would think about all the things he had yet to experience— the things his parents always wanted him to do. And suddenly, he wasn't so sure anymore. Both the desire to live and to die played tug-of-war with him on an almost daily basis; he didn't know what he wanted.

But he knew without a shred of doubt that he didn't want the government making the decision for him.

Jack bit his lip and pulled himself back to reality. He shoved the newspaper into a trashcan, and his feet started moving, almost automatically, in the direction of the saloon. He needed to put in at least a bare minimum effort not to be caught and go change his clothes.

He suddenly groaned and froze in place, earning himself a few perplexed stares from people he passed on the street, when he remembered that he didn't have any spare clothing in his room above the bar. He internally kicked himself for not having had the foresight to bring any; now, he would have to go back home to the ranch to change, and that thought made his stomach turn. It'll be fine, he told himself as he chewed the inside of his lip. You won't be there longer than ten minutes.

He shifted course to the stables to retrieve his horse for that dreaded ride home.

—

Jack felt unsettled the instant his horse crossed the threshold onto the ranch, and the feeling grew as the distance between himself and the porch shrank. The ranch was a mess; last week's violent storm had knocked much of the outdoor furniture over, and it was still just as overgrown as ever.

Eager to limit his time on the property, he hopped down from his horse before she even came to a complete stop in front of the porch. The momentum sent him skidding to the base of the stairs. He quickly regained his balance and wasted no time climbing the stairs and bursting into the house, not bothering to close the door behind him. Ten minutes, he kept telling himself. That was all.

Staring down at his feet, he made the immediate turn into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He exhaled, blowing out some of the unease he felt, and rested his back against the door as he looked around the room. It was the one place in the house that hadn't been tainted by his awful memories, the one place where he had always felt somewhat at peace. He had spent much of his adolescence in that room, enjoying his time alone, lost in some book or writing at his desk. A stack of books still sat in the middle of that desk, untouched for years and buried in dust, as his love for reading was buried under his obsession with avenging his father.

The thought reminded him of why he was there, and he stepped away from the door, heading to his dresser. He rifled through the drawers, clicking his tongue in frustration as he realized how little he had to choose from. He had grown out of the majority of his clothing a couple of years ago, and none of the little he did have felt different enough from what he was already wearing— different enough from what the paper had described.

He slammed the drawer closed then leaned against the dresser; it wobbled and creaked in protest of the weight on it. He dug his palms into the sharp corners of it as he thought about what he could do. He didn't have the money to go buy a bunch of new clothes.

He supposed he could find something in his father's old wardrobe, but that would require leaving the sanctuary of his bedroom and going into his parent's room, something Jack hadn't done since his mother died two weeks ago. Had it really been two weeks? It simultaneously felt like it had been both hours and years since she left him, taking that last shred of light within him with her.

He wasn't sure how he'd react to being in there, but he figured he at least had to try. It was that or go and steal a bunch of clothes, which he despised the thought of doing; he had shamed his parents enough. With a shaky sigh, he released his grip on the dresser, his hands now sore from the wood digging into them, and stood up straight.

He left his bedroom and sped down the hallway, putting a hand up to his face to shield his eyes from his parents' portrait when he passed the living room. He swore he could still feel their eyes boring into him.

Holding his breath and squeezing his eyes shut, Jack pushed the door to his parents' bedroom open. He slowly opened his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable wave of anguish that he expected to hit him, knock him down, and render him a sobbing mess on the floor. But as he stared into the empty room, he felt nothing— less than nothing, really. He felt hollow.

Jack hesitantly stepped into the room and peered around. The bed was devoid of any blankets or sheets; he had stripped all of them off and thrown them out after his mother died. He would have thrown the mattress itself out too if it weren't so heavy; his mother had often lamented to him about how tired she was of being in that bed, making him hate it as well. The thing had become like a prison to her in the last weeks of her life. The hollowness in his chest grew at the memory of her.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly, mocking him for having ever thought that this trip to the ranch could be brief and easy. Jack peeled his eyes away from the bed and scowled at it; he had been there twice as long as he intended to be.

He refocused on his task and turned his attention to the wardrobe. He opened it and was pleased to find an array of clothing to pick from. He grabbed the garments he thought most contrasted with what he was currently wearing— a dark button-up shirt and a black tailcoat— and tossed them onto the bed.

He closed the wardrobe and continued rooting through his parents' room in search of a hat. Luckily, it didn't take long for him to find one tucked away in a large chest in the corner of the room. He crouched down, picked it up, and brushed off the dust on it before studying it. The hat was fashioned out of black leather with two braided cords of light brown leather wrapped around it and tied into a knot in the back. It was well worn— even more so than his father's hat— and vaguely familiar, though Jack couldn't quite place it. Maybe he'd seen his father wear it a couple of times in the past before it was tucked away in that chest to be forgotten; he wasn't sure. He shrugged and threw the hat onto the bed with the rest of his new wardrobe.

He stood at the end of the bed and examined the outfit he had put together, reciting the description in that newspaper article in his head until he was sure the clothes were sufficient. Satisfied, he swiftly changed into them; they fit him well enough, being only the slightest bit loose on his frame.

He then took off his father's hat to switch it out for the new one, but he froze, unable to unhook his grip on it. Jack stared at it, knowing he had to let it go; it was a distinctive hat, and it was included in that stupid newspaper description. But it meant a lot to him; he had worn it every day since his mother had given it to him shortly before she died. What an awful day that had been, he thought as the day she gave it to him replayed in his head.

He had been preparing to head to town for supplies on the morning of that day, as he did every week, and had popped into her doorway to check on her.

"Hey, ma," he had said as he kneeled down to adjust his boot. "I'm goin' into town; you need anything?"

When she didn't answer, he looked up and scanned the room, thinking, hoping, that maybe she was feeling better and had managed to get herself out of the bedroom. One side of the bed was neatly made-up, and his father's old hat sat neatly on the pillow where he had once lied; his mother had kept it there for years. He wasn't quite sure why; he never asked. Maybe it made her feel less alone, like his father was somehow still lying beside her. On the other side, there was a lump under the pile of blankets, and he could see his mother's long dark hair spread wildly across her pillow. She was definitely there.

"Ma?" he called out to her again, louder.

When the lump on the bed didn't move, he immediately thought the worst. His blood ran cold, and he swore he could feel his heart stop. He stood up and rushed to her bedside.

"Momma?" he whimpered and placed a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her.

He exhaled in relief when she finally stirred, and he clutched his chest as his heart remembered how to beat again.

She rolled over to look at him, and his breath caught when he laid eyes on her face. Her under eyes were dark, her cheeks pale and sunken. It was terrifying how fast she'd deteriorated during those few months she was ill. It tore him apart to see her that way.

She licked her pale, chapped lips and murmured, "What?"

"I-I'm goin' to the store," he repeated, trying hard to keep his voice steady. "You want anything?"

She glanced up in thought for a second before asking, "Could you get me some more of them lil' chocolates you bought last week?" She gave him a small smile. "I loved 'em."

"Course." Jack nodded.

"Oh, and some licorice," she added.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Momma, you hate licorice," he gently reminded her as he sat on the edge of the bed beside her.

"I know, but…" She let out a shaky sigh. "Your pa loved it," she said, her voice cracking.

Jack gave a quiet, half-hearted chuckle. "What, you gonna go give it to him?"

"Maybe," she replied, though she didn't laugh with him. Her tone was somber, almost remorseful.

Jack frowned, knowing what her response implied. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes flitted away to stare at the wall. Abigail grabbed his hand and held it, gently stroking his knuckles with her thumb, as an air of melancholy filled the room around them. They both knew she wasn't doing well; she was getting worse with every passing day. As hard as he tried to repress the thought, to convince himself that somehow she'd end up okay, he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost her too.

When her grip on his hand loosened, Jack glanced back at her to find her staring at him, a wistful expression on her face. She reached up to rest her hand on his cheek.

"You're just like him," she said after a brief moment of silence, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack's brows drew together, and his lip quivered slightly as he stared back at her. He had always wanted to be like his father; that statement should have made him happy. So why did it hurt so badly?

Abigail removed her hand from his cheek and reached over to grab his father's hat off of the pillow on the opposite side of the bed. She placed the hat atop his head then rested her hands on his upper arms, pushing him back slightly to take a look at him. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she let out a choked laugh. "My sweet boy."

Jack lowered his chin, the brim of the hat shielding his face from her view, and internally scoffed. 'Sweet.' He was no such thing. Not anymore. He had become such an angry, vengeful person in the past few years, and she knew that.

The smile gradually disappeared from his mother's face as she watched him, almost as if she could read his mind. "I'm so sorry," she whispered suddenly, and Jack looked back at her, confused. "I wish I could be here for you forever. You didn't…" She stifled a sob. "You don't deserve any of this. You was always such a gentle soul."

"Momma, stop," he choked, biting back tears. He didn't want to think about any of that. He didn't want to think about her leaving him; he didn't want to think about how much better of a person he used to be.

"You're allowed to cry, Jack," she told him firmly. She really could read him like a book, couldn't she? "You've earned that right more than anybody."

He couldn't remember the last time he allowed himself to cry; he had gotten so used to swallowing his tears. He preferred to set his sorrow on fire—to morph it into anger— rather than let it exist as it was. It hurt less that way.

But when she extended her arms out to him, he couldn't stop all of those years of repressed anguish from spilling out. He leaned down into her embrace and started sobbing into her shoulder. She had hugged him as tightly as she could, gently rubbing his back in an effort to soothe him as she cried along with him.

Now, as he looked at the bare, empty bed, that hollowness he had felt earlier had been filled with grief. He wished his mother was still there now to hold him while he cried— to cradle him in her arms like he was still a child. He would give anything in the world.

He stared down at the hat still in his hands, a few stray tears dripping down onto it. He had tried to give it back to her, but she insisted he keep it. It was his now. She had asked him to wear it every day so that they would never be too far from his thoughts.

Unfortunately, that was yet another promise to her he had to break; he hoped she would understand.

Jack finally forced himself to put the hat down, placing it back on top of the pillow where his mother had once kept it. He wiped his eyes, grabbed the replacement hat, and quickly left the room.

His ten minutes on the ranch were finally done with.