“Pretty beautiful, isn't it?” Harold’s canteen stopped at his lips. Caught off guard by the sudden conversation despite hours of silence.

“What did you say? You can't just talk to me out of nowhere now.” He grumbled, sitting up straighter.

“The sunset, Son.” Pa sighed. Rather he was taking it in or finally letting his annoyance show, Harold couldn't really tell from the back of his gleaming head. “The colors… they’re like a dream.”

Harold looked at the shared view, the warm swirl of color highlighting the sky doing nothing for him. He ducked his eyes back under the rim of his hat and gazed far ahead to Mount Gersa. It’s like they barely moved an inch forward. “…How much longer til we make it?”

“We’ll get there,” Pa said. Class act over here.

“…Right.” Harold didn’t know what he expected from the old man, shaking his head as he sipped from his canteen.

“There’s a boulder ways ahead, should make for nice shade, shelter, for the night.”

“Sounds alright.”

“We’ll continue at early dawn.”

Soon enough, Harold was finally off his horse. Legs are sore from long riding. Pa laid his horse down on the sand, patting its head before resting against the boulder’s edge.

“Son, go look for some sticks and such for the fire.”

Harold looked around, seeing sand upon sand before looking back, grueling. “Out here?”

“Yes, out here. The desert isn't all death and bones.” Pa bit, digging through his satchel.

“Right. I go ahead and get more sand in my boots while you just sit there looking pretty.”

“Well someone has to get the fire going while you’re gone. I'll get going if I were you.”

“Right…” He stormed off with a glare, trekking into the vast desert.

How Harold didn't strand himself in that desert that night and not put himself out of his misery was a miracle. The fire blazed into the night.

“Your mother would have loved this.” Pa stirred the can of beans, the juices spilling into the fire.

“You say that like you loved her.” Harold spat, craving sharp edges on a stick he found. It was to avoid gutting the man he have to call father. Then again, maybe he’ll use the stick and not dirty his knife.

“I still stand correct.” He rubbed off the blow, still tending beans. “That’s why she wanted to be spread out here.”

He peeled the bark. “You think I give a damn?”

“I know you do. You were a good son, Harold. Your mother raised you so well.”

“…Just eat your damn beans, Old man.” He muttered, lowering his hat. “I'm getting sick of your voice.”