After Lilly had left, Jack retreated into his room, where he got a couple of hours of sleep before a nightmare inevitably jolted him awake again. Resolving that those couple of hours were likely as good as he was gonna get— and being unwilling to test that theory— he abandoned his bed and pulled a chair up to the window. There he now sat, elbows resting on the windowsill as he smoked a cigarette and listlessly watched the city streets below.

Sometime during his slumber, the weather had taken a turn. The sky was overcast with dark, angry clouds that poured down heavy curtains of rain in short, inconsistent intervals, as if they couldn't decide whether they wanted to commit to storming or not. Not a single ray of sunlight penetrated the clouds, and if it weren't for the clock on City Hall telling him otherwise, he would've assumed that night had already fallen. It was only late afternoon.

Jack sighed, fogging up a small spot of the window with his breath, and slumped back in his chair. The day was far too long when he wasn't able to sleep or drink most of it away, and as ridiculous as it sounded, he was bored. How someone could be bored knowing that the law was trying tirelessly to find them, he didn't know, but he felt it nonetheless.

He still couldn't decide whether he truly cared if they caught him. One minute, he was panicking over the possibility and anguishing over the horror of his nightmares, and the next, he felt nothing but the desire for the ordeal to end in any way possible. Even if that meant it had to end badly for himself. So far, his fear and his disdain for the government had prevailed over his apathy but just barely. He wasn't sure what he would do once the bare minimum effort he put in was no longer enough to keep their eyes off of him. Maybe he'd get lucky and they'd never suspect him; that way he wouldn't have to worry about what to do.

But he knew that was a stupid thought. If they wanted to find someone, they would. It was only a matter of time. His family had learned that the hard way.

Another heavy wave of rain began to wash over the bar's roof, and Jack took a final drag of his dwindling cigarette before snuffing it out into an ashtray. He rose out of the chair to grab a fresh cigarette from his satchel, which he'd carelessly tossed onto the floor beside his bed earlier.

He fished it up off of the floor, opened it, and started digging around for his pack of cigarettes. When he couldn't find it by feeling around, he grew impatient and resorted to dumping the bag's contents out onto his bed. When the cigarettes finally tumbled out of the bag, he set them to the side and began putting everything else back inside.

He paused when his hand landed on his journal— or his father's journal, rather; Jack had only written in it once. It had been years since he read through it for the first— and last— time. It was the last book he ever read before his obsession with killing Ross overtook him; it was what sparked that desire for revenge to begin with.

Shortly after his father's death, he had found his mother sitting by the crackling fire in the living room in tears as she held the open journal tightly in her hands. Her bloodshot eyes frantically scanned over the pages as she attempted to read what was written on them. He stood by silently, watching her and waiting for her to acknowledge his presence, but her attention was glued to the journal. She only took her eyes off of it for a second when he finally called out to her, his voice heavy with concern. The pain Jack saw on her face during that glance tore at his heart.

He approached her and sat beside her, not uttering a word as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She didn't say anything either, didn't offer any explanation for her distress. But she didn't need to; the reason was clear to Jack from the moment he laid eyes on her. She had told him many times how much she missed his father and how she would give anything to hear his voice again. That journal offered her a tangible way to do so, but she couldn't read it. It was like giving a bone to a toothless dog. He could only imagine how frustrating and heartbreaking it was for her.

When he gently offered to read it to her, she stared at it with uncertainty, then at him with the same look. He thought for sure that she was going to decline, but instead, she wordlessly placed it in his hands, already opened to the first page for him to begin.

A visible relief washed over her as he read the first few pages aloud. He wasn't sure if her relief was brought about by finally being able to hear the words or by the fact that the journal's contents were largely ordinary, including nothing that she didn't want Jack to hear.

Either way, she seemed to enjoy their little reading session, so much so that it became something they did nightly for almost a week. He would read a few pages to her then hand the journal to her and help her reread them herself. Most of the pages they read on those nights were about mundane happenings around the ranch, generously sprinkled with threat-filled rants about Uncle's laziness.

That was until they reached the first of many entries dated after the government had come and taken them away. It seemed to be written by a completely different person— someone Jack didn't recognize at all, someone so broken— yet the handwriting remained the same as the previous pages. When his mother noticed the dark change in tone, she quickly pulled the journal out of his hands and told him that was enough.

But Jack didn't want to stop reading; he had been wanting nothing more than to find out what happened to his father after they were taken away, but everyone always refused to tell him. So he tried unsuccessfully to snatch it back, earning himself nothing but a smack on the wrist. His mother hurriedly stood up, hugging the journal close to her chest, and gave him a stern order to go to bed.

He begrudgingly obeyed and slinked off to his bedroom in defeat. He laid in his bed for hours, trying to sleep, but it was impossible. His curiosity itched at him relentlessly. He felt he couldn't live another day not knowing what happened, not after he had gotten so close to finding out.

So once he was sure that his mother would be asleep, he snuck into her bedroom to get it back. It wasn't at all hard to find; she was never as good at hiding things from him as she thought she was. And he was a much better thief than she thought he was.

He returned to his room and stayed up all night reading through it, not taking his eyes off of it for even a second. It was more gripping than any book he had ever read before. He read all about his father's escapades during his forced time away from them, discovered all of the things everyone tried so hard to keep from him. Many of his questions that had previously only been met with a 'don't worry about it' or a cryptic remark or flat-out ignored were finally answered and in great detail.

He learned all about the deal those government bastards made with his father and how he had done everything they asked of him, only for them to go back on their promises in the end. The anger he felt towards them as he read was indescribable, more intense and all-consuming than anything he had ever felt before. The fire it lit within him could only be rivaled by that of hell.

His mother had found him there in the morning, sitting upright in his bed with the journal still clasped in his hands. As soon as he saw her, he proceeded to go off on a fiery rant about what had been done to his father. He couldn't recall most of what he said, but he distinctly remembered ending his tirade by telling her, promising her, "I'm gonna kill him."

She had responded to this by ripping the journal out of his grip, his nails leaving long scratches down the cover as he tried unsuccessfully to keep her from taking it, and storming out of the room.

Jack ran his fingers along the scratch marks still imprinted in the journal's leather cover. He only got it back after she died, and he hadn't looked through it since. He never had any need to; the majority of the story was burned into his mind from the moment he read it.

His fingers found the corner of the journal, and before he could stop himself, he opened it and flipped to the last page his father had written, dated only a few days before his death. It read:

Uncle's been getting on my nerves like never before these past few weeks. Never should've let him stay here, though I never imagined he'd last this long. I swear he must be some sort of immortal creature. Told Jack he ought to write a scary story about him— The Lazy Old Leech Who Never Dies.

Jack remembered his father telling him that; he had thought it was funny at the time. Now, knowing what happened to Uncle only a few days later, not so much.

He continued to read the next little paragraph on the page, which was about himself.

Boy's been healing well after that bear got ahold of him but has still got some nasty scratches on his face. Hope they don't heal as ugly as mine. Still got no clue what he was thinking, thought he was smarter than me.

Jack cringed at the embarrassing memory and raised his hand to trace the scar on his upper lip. He was lucky that was the only noticeable scar that the incident left on his face; there were others, but they were very faint. The deepest, most unsightly scars from the encounter were on his arms and torso, hidden underneath his clothing where nobody else would ever see them.

He turned his attention to the adjacent page, which was empty save for a few words messily scrawled down in Jack's own handwriting: he has been avenged. He frowned at the cryptic statement. Those words were the only clue as to the horrors that happened after his father's last mundane entry.

Jack had written them while resting at a campsite the night after he killed Ross. He thought that writing that down would make what he'd done feel real. He thought that it would give him that feeling of righteous relief he craved—that feeling the protagonists of his favorite books had after avenging their fathers. It didn't, and that feeling never came for him. The books had lied to him.

He tore the page out, crumpled it up in his fist, and threw it onto the floor in the opposite corner of the room. He snapped the journal shut and shoved it back into his satchel, along with everything else that he had dumped out.

He lit up another cigarette and shakily raised it to his lips. Craning his neck upwards, he closed his eyes and blew a puff of smoke up to the ceiling. God, he wanted a drink. He knew that was a bad idea; he was trying to keep himself in check, and that was impossible to do while drunk. But it was so painfully enticing, as bad ideas usually were.

Just one drink wouldn't hurt, a voice within him prodded. Just one to take the edge off.

The last shred of willpower he had crumbled under the weight of the past few days' stressors, and he gave in to the voice immediately.

—

Jack made a beeline for the bar, where Mrs. Howard was busy wiping some shot glasses clean. "Hey, hon," she greeted him with an affectionate smile when he stopped in front of her. "How ya doin'?"

"Alright, I guess," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "Can I have a drink?" Before she could ask what he wanted he added, "Of anything."

Her smile fell, being replaced with a look of mild disappointment, a look he had grown accustomed to over the years. And it was well-deserved. He had mentioned his intention to stop drinking to her the other day, yet there he was.

She set the glass she had been polishing down on the bartop with a sigh, then stared at it in quiet thought for a moment. "Sure…" she said dubiously, taking a step back from the bar. "Gimme just a second."

His eyebrows furrowed when she walked off, heading towards a back room of the bar. He didn't know why she had to go back there; he could see plenty of bottles of all sorts of liquor adorning the shelves behind the bar.

She emerged a couple of minutes later with a steaming ceramic bowl balanced in the palm of her hand. She set it down in front of him.

Jack looked into the bowl and frowned at the food in it. This definitely wasn't the drink he'd requested. "What is this?" he asked, lifting his hands in question.

"Dinner," she said, pulling a silver spoon from her apron and setting it on the bar beside the bowl. "Nice hearty stew I whipped up almost an hour ago. You can have your drink after you eat it."

Unamused, he slapped his hands down onto the bar and scowled at her. He opened his mouth to protest, but the stern look she flashed him as she picked up another glass to resume cleaning told him that any objections would be futile.

Rolling his eyes, he grumbled, "Fine."

Jack picked up the spoon, forcefully shoving it into the bowl like a child throwing a silent tantrum. He wished Mr. Weaver was there; he would have just given him the drink without all this song and dance. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the bar for the man, but he didn't see him anywhere. Turning back to Mrs. Howard, he began to ask, "Where's—"

Without hearing the latter half of his question, she answered, "Lilly left just a bit before you came down. She wasn't feelin' very well."

"Weaver," he finished, then pursed his lips and stared at her with a quirked brow.

"Oh!" Her face flushed, and she apologized for her assumption. "He wanted to walk her back to her room, make sure she got there safe. He should be back any minute."

Jack acknowledged her answer with a nod then was struck with a bit of concern for Lilly as he fully processed it. In his haste to get to the bar, he hadn't even noticed that she was missing from the piano she was meant to be playing that night. He asked Mrs. Howard, "Is she alright?"

She gave him a comforting look and softly replied, "Yes, I'm sure she's fine. Think she just needs to get some sleep, y'know?"

He nodded, remembering how exhausted she had looked when he talked to her earlier.

Mrs. Howard glanced off to the side, a sly smile spreading across her face, before she rested her arms on the bar and leaned in a little closer to him. "So y'all two are friends now, then?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, you were talkin' earlier, and you seem a little worried about her…. I'm just curious."

Jack stared down into the bowl of food in front of him and poked at it with his spoon as he mulled over the question. He didn't know if he could call her a friend; he wasn't even entirely sure what constituted a friend. As pathetic as it was, he never really had any. The constant moving around throughout his childhood made it impossible for him to make any friends, and it was difficult to connect with people when you couldn't even tell them your real name. Not that his name earned him many favors with most people though….

As far as he knew, the young woman was just an acquaintance, albeit one with an unusual amount of patience for him. He looked back at Mrs. Howard and responded to her question with a flat, "Not really."

The woman's shoulders slumped, and the disappointment returned to her face. "That's a shame. You're real similar; I think you'd make good friends."

Jack only offered a shrug in response then bowed his head and resumed poking at his food.

The sound of the rain outside became louder as the saloon door opened, and Mrs. Howard straightened up. She clicked her tongue and called out with a tinge of irritation, "Oh, leave the umbrella by the door, won't you?"

He heard a light thud as something was tossed onto the floor then wet shoes began squeaking towards the bar.

"Can always count on you for a warm welcome, huh?" Mr. Weaver's familiar voice teased, making her roll her eyes.

The squeaking stopped when Mr. Weaver arrived at the bar, and he placed a firm hand on Jack's shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Hey, son. Doing okay?"

Jack instinctively shrugged the man's hand off of his shoulder and mumbled an affirmative. Mr. Weaver made his way to his place behind the bar.

Mrs. Howard asked, "Is Lilly okay?" Then with a little smirk and a glance at Jack, she added, "Jack wanted to know."

The man raised an eyebrow at the latter statement but didn't verbally acknowledge it, which Jack appreciated. "Yeah. She's fine," he told her. Then, with a chuckle, he said, "Was about time she dropped."

Mrs. Howard gave him a look. "Don't be crass."

"I wasn't," he retorted. "I was just sayin'."

She swatted at him with her hand towel. "Well, say less."

He raised his palms and uttered a sarcastic apology. She let out a sigh of irritation and shook her head before turning away and walking behind him to begin cleaning the glasses on the shelves behind the bar.

Mr. Weaver stared over his shoulder at her, eyes gleaming with amusement, before shifting his focus to Jack. "So where'd you run off to earlier?"

"Nowhere interesting," Jack said, shrugging. "Just needed to get away for a while."

He nodded and went silent for a moment as he studied Jack, who dropped his shoulders and stared into his barely-touched bowl of stew. "Anything I can do for ya?"

Jack thought for a second then glanced at Mrs. Howard, whose back was turned as she cleaned. "Can I have a drink?" he whispered to the bartender, hoping that she wouldn't hear.

His hopes were immediately dashed when the woman scoffed and snapped her head around. "No!"

Mr. Weaver looked back at her, confused, and she pointed at the bowl of food in front of Jack. "I told him he has to eat first," she said firmly, crossing her arms and daring the man to undermine her decision.

He raised a hand and motioned for her to calm down before turning back to Jack. He breathed out a laugh and said, "I guess not."

Jack groaned and clutched his temple. He was not in the mood to eat anything, and the thought of doing so made his stomach turn. He cursed himself for ever telling Mrs. Howard that he was trying to stop drinking. He assumed that was the reason she was being so stern. That or she had been possessed by the spirit of his mother…. The thought made him thirstier.

The rain's roaring intensified again as the side door leading to the saloon's patio swung open and another person approached the bar. Jack looked to see who it was and recognized the person as one of the men he would often play cards with, Alfred. Alfred caught his eye and grinned.

"Hey, Marston!" he said jubilantly as he closed the gap between them, flashing the bartender a smile as well. "I was looking for you earlier; where the hell you been?"

"Lookin' for me?" Jack snorted as he straightened up. "Why?"

"Poker's more fun with five people than four." He laughed and patted Jack on the back before looking at the bartender. "Can I get another round of beers for me and the boys outside?"

Mr. Weaver nodded and knelt down to retrieve the drinks for him.

Alfred nudged Jack with his elbow and leaned in a little to say, "Old Mr. Lowe's playing drunk again."

"What a surprise," Jack remarked with deadpan sarcasm.

Mr. Weaver stood up and set the four bottles of beer Alfred had requested on the bar in front of him, receiving a thanks from the man. He then glanced behind his shoulder at Mrs. Howard before producing a fifth bottle and sliding it over to Jack. When Jack raised his eyebrows at him, he lifted a finger to his lips and winked.

He grabbed the bottle and held it behind the bar so it couldn't be seen.

Alfred gathered up the other four and asked Jack, "So you up for joining us? I got a feeling it's gonna be an exciting night."

Jack glanced at the beer held low in his hand, imagining how Mrs. Howard would tear it away from him should she turn around when he raised it to his lips. Going outside was probably a good idea.

He shrugged. "Sure. I ain't got much better to do."

—

Jack followed Alfred outside and was hit by a light gust of wind and the full force of the roaring sound of the rain. The air was filled with the smell of tobacco smoke emanating from the cigarettes of the patrons sitting outside and watching the downpour from the safety of the bar's covered patio.

"Hey, boys, look who I found!" Alfred said with a nod towards Jack as he approached the poker table, where three other men sat. He set the bottles of beer he brought in the middle of the table and plopped down into his seat. "He's joining us."

Two of the men welcomed him amicably as they each reached out to grab one of the bottles.

The third, Mr. Lowe, who was indeed drunk as Alfred had said, looked up at Jack and let out an obnoxious laugh. "Good! More money for me to take."

Jack scoffed at the man's undue confidence; he had never been any good at the game yet still thought that he was God's gift to poker. Playing with him would be intolerable if it weren't so easily lucrative.

He pulled out the empty chair in between Alfred and Lowe, set his drink down, and sat down, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on the table.

"Here, kid." Alfred set the deck of cards in front of him. "Your deal."

Jack picked up the deck, gave it a couple of thorough shuffles, and began doling out the cards— two to each of the five players.

He had only started playing poker earlier that year when this small group of men approached him and asked him to join them. He had been hesitant at first, knowing that his mother would hate him spending any of the little money they had gambling. But they coaxed him in by telling him that his father used to play with them often— and wipe the floor with them when he did. Jack jumped at any opportunity to be like his dad, even when it was to his detriment.

Despite his inexperience, he quickly proved to be quite good at the game once he got started, much to the shock and amusement of the other men. They said that he must have inherited his father's skill, so they were sure to lose every penny they had by the end of the night.

Though looking back, it wasn't really that surprising that he'd be good at a game that relied on lying and taking stupid risks; those things seemed to come naturally to him those days.

They played several rounds, all going without incident— barring the occasional arrogant remark from Lowe— and Jack was able to win himself a moderate sum thus far. Two of the other men bust out, leaving only Alfred, Jack, and Lowe in the next round.

The second Alfred laid eyes on the hand he was dealt, he laughed derisively and folded. Jack swallowed a frown when he received his own hand: a measly two and a five, each of different suits. A sensible player would fold without hesitation, but he never regarded himself as very sensible, so he chose to raise the stakes a little and threw some chips into the pot. Lowe snorted and matched his bet.

As the round went on, his pathetic cards soon began to feel like gold in his hands. He ended up with three-of-a-kind of twos— not the greatest hand in the world, but likely still better than whatever his incompetent, drunken opponent had up his sleeve.

Jack threw in a hefty bet, but Lowe was unconvinced. He made it known that he didn't believe Jack had shit, then raised the bet to double the amount. Jack responded by raising the stakes even further, prompting Lowe to respond by going all-in. He happily reciprocated, and the two prepared to show off their cards.

"Ha! Read 'em and weep, little boy." The man slapped his cards down onto the table to reveal the hand he had put so much faith in. "Pair of kings and twos."

A smirk tugged at Jack's lips as he wordlessly revealed his trio of twos, and he delighted in the dismay that overtook his arrogant opponent's face.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Lowe exclaimed, slamming his fist down onto the table.

Jack leaned in to scoop up his winnings from the center of the table, and Alfred burst out laughing and playfully slapped him on the shoulder, congratulating him on the win.

"This's absolute fucking horseshit!" the loser shouted, making Jack pause. "I'm not fucking losing all my money to that shit hand, dammit! Gimme my shit back; I wanna redo!"

Alfred snorted. "That ain't how the game works."

"You lost. I won it fair 'n square," Jack said in unison as he resumed collecting his earnings.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of a pistol being pulled from Lowe's hip. Jack glared at him, not feeling even a hint of trepidation about the gun trained on his chest.

"You're gonna give me my shit back."

"Put the gun away, you drunk fool," Alfred cut in, his voice full of exasperation. "You don't even know what day it is."

"I think you should listen to him, friend," Jack said flatly.

"Come on, fight me! Winner gets the money."

"No."

"Coward!" Lowe spat then proceeded to continue throwing a flurry of insults, all essentially meaning the same as the first, all while still waving his pistol around.

Jack ignored all of it. It wasn't the first time the old idiot pulled this shit, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He locked eyes with Alfred and said, "I think I'm done; I'm goin' back inside."

Still ignoring Lowe's insults and demands for him to stay and duel him, he swiftly gathered up his poker winnings and turned away from them to reenter the bar.

"Fine, run away you Goddamn pansy, just like your good-for-nothing daddy! You keep on living like a coward just like he did and die like a coward just like he did."

Jack froze with his back towards the man when the slurred words registered in his brain. His face went hot, and he slowly turned back to face him. "What?" he said through clenched teeth.

"You heard me, you fucking woman."

He balled his fists and clenched his jaw so tightly that he feared his teeth would shatter. Calling him a coward was one thing, but his father was anything but. And he certainly didn't die like a coward; this piece of shit had no idea what he was talking about. Maybe it would be the last time he pulled this shit….

"C'mon," Alfred intervened, placing a hand on his shoulder and trying to turn him back around. "Let it go."

He was right. He should let it go; he needed to let it go. He couldn't afford to bring more attention to himself, to cause himself more trouble. But his racing heart and boiling blood didn't care.

"Fine," Jack snarled. "You really want a fight? You can have one."

The delighted smirk that crossed Lowe's features as he lowered his pistol increased Jack's anger. He returned the gun to its holster and shakily rose out of his chair, pausing for a moment to gain his balance before stumbling out into the rainy street.

Seething, Jack stomped after him, the cool raindrops feeling like ice against his burning skin. He took his place in front of Lowe and squinted through the rain to look around. A small group of people was gathered on the saloon's patio, watching apprehensively, Alfred being the most anxious among them.

At the last moment, some of his anger fizzled, and he decided he wouldn't kill the man. He couldn't— not with all those people watching. Not with his parents watching from wherever they were; he had disappointed them enough.

Instead, when it came time to draw, he shot Lowe twice in his right shoulder to prevent him from drawing his pistol. Not that he would have had the chance anyway; Jack's gun was drawn before the man's drunken hand could even find his holster.

Lowe let out a cry and sank to the ground, where he sat groaning and clutching his wounded shoulder. Jack slipped his revolver back into its holster and scowled at the scene of the sniveling man.

Alfred jogged over to Lowe and bent down to tend to him. "You goddamn idiot, Lowe. You got real lucky there."

Indeed he did, Jack thought.

He didn't care to witness the rest of their interaction and turned away to finally head back inside. He kept his head down as he walked to avoid seeing the horrified faces of the spectators.