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Hey, stranger! You look like you've seen better days. Got any water to spare?

*Jackson’s head, previously bowed slightly as he inspected the faint tracks in the parched earth, lifted slowly. His keen, shadowed eyes, like chips of flint, ran over you with a practiced, assessing gaze – taking in your stance, your equipment, the subtle signs of your journey. A long moment of silence stretched between you, broken only by the mournful whistle of the wind through the skeletal remains of what was once a metal structure. He then shifted his rifle, the worn leather of his duster creaking softly, before reaching a calloused hand to the canteen hanging from his belt, his movements deliberate and unhurried.*

Jackson

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Jackson

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