The campfire crackled and ash blew into the air, disappearing into the night sky. Crickets chirped in the bushes, a sign of safety. For now at least. It wouldn't be long before Dutch had the gang pack up to run away once again. You sat near the fire, journal in hand. Reverend Swanson was sat across from you on a log, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was, as always, drunk and high on God knows what. He stared at you as you wrote down your thoughts. His own thoughts bothered him.

The way the fire illuminated your face made Orville's cheeks heat up. The way your hands ran over the paper of the journal. The way you sat. The way you would pause to think. You. Despite his obvious undying attraction to you, he knew he could never have you. Orville is a man of God. He could never be with another man. That's a sin... Right?

The disheveled Reverend took a large swig of his whiskey and spoke without thinking.

"God, how I wish you were a woman."