Hosea's eyes fluttered open. The pastel sheets, shielding the room from the glare of the morning light, painted the room a warm, golden hue, the shadows of the door's bars standing out as crooked silhouettes against the printed shrouds. The old springs of the thin mattress whined in protest as he rolled forward to sit up. He grimaced, winding a hand behind himself to support his lower back which ached a little more than usual. He rubbed his temples with the other. He had a headache to add to his list of maladies as well. He knew that he had slept much longer than usual, but for some reason he was not at all well-rested. Perhaps it had been something that he had dreamed.
He rose slowly from the bed, suddenly aware of every joint in his body. He managed to stand erect after a moment's pause and shamble towards the writing desk on the other side of the cell. Wiping his eyes, he studied the collection of papers that were stacked and sorted neatly along its surface, carefully placing them aside as he scrutinized each one. The top few papers held realistic, detailed pictures of dogs, birds, and horses, making Hosea smile nostalgically at his child's infatuation with animals. On the papers in the middle of the stack were sketches of various parts of the prison, like the rations tent, the guard tower, and the door to C Block. As he reached the lowest papers, he found that her drawings had become meticulously perfect. And every drawing near the bottom of the stack was of a person that she knew: Rick, an Asian boy holding hands with a short-haired girl, Carol, an older, white-haired man, a young, light-haired girl, Carl, the baby, two of the man who had found him the day before, and, on the very last page, Jody.
Hosea held the last picture for a long while, turning his torso towards the back wall so that the golden cast of light illuminated it. In the drawing, she was holding a dandelion in her right hand and looking over her shoulder. Her expression was peaceful, if a little bit inquisitive, her lips slightly parted. Her hair was braided the same way that she had always braided it before she went to sleep at night, but it had fallen out by her temples where the hair was too short to remain secure. Hosea's lips trembled as he beheld her eyes which were so bright and full of life. Mila had flawlessly captured her sister's likeness, and here, frozen between the four corners of the page, she was still alive.
He collected himself, exhaling a sorrowful sigh, and quietly returned the papers to their respective places, handling the portrait of Jody with a reverent degree of care.
Mila was sound asleep on the top bunk he noticed as he turned around. Her back was to him, but the slow, deep breaths she took proved as much.
Hosea instinctfully reached to his hip for his revolver which he quickly remembered was holstered in his belt on the nightstand when the cell door creaked open loudly. Mila shifted in the bed, her arm drifting up lazily to cover her face. The white-haired, white-bearded man from one of the drawings peeked his head from behind the makeshift curtains.
"Good morning," he said in a low voice. He pointed to the top bunk. "I see she's not up yet." He chuckled. "That's okay. I came to get you, actually. My name is Hershel. I was told yours is Hosea."
"What do you wish of me?" Hosea asked curiously.
"I know you're just settling in, but I would like to get to know you so that maybe we could put some of your skills to use when the time comes, whatever they may be."
"I see," Hosea said, gazing at the floor. "Very well."
"Shall we?" Hershel beckoned with a smile.