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❛ you say it's gold that you're making, but all you're really making is widows and orphans. ❜ he was watching a large black scavenger bird circle ahead towards the mesa. the heat made it and the landscape into waves of uncertainty. his hat and the cantina provided some shade this late in the afternoon but sweat still beads from his forehead and neck. there was a glossiness to his eyes. the sand could have taken blame from a sorrowful memory, plucked by the recognition of his own words. once the bird fell out of sight, he gestured to the girl providing them food and drink, silently asking for her to refill their cups. she was prompt, and he was grateful. their friendship was shown in the small gestures. his pat on her arm like that of a grandfather, and her small but warm smile in return. there wouldn't be a single moment of the day that he didn't fear for her life. and while they were from completely different worlds, that fear was more familial than blood.