The Stranger woke up face-down in the dirt, tasting blood and grit.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Dust coated his tongue, and the sun’s glare seared through his eyelids. His body was one massive ache, every breath scraping against his ribs. He lay there, waiting for his mind to catch up, piecing together how he’d ended up here.

Here.

His blurry gaze shifted to the cracked earth, jagged rocks, and the dry rasp of something circling nearby. He rolled his head to the side, spotting vultures perched on a low outcrop. Three of them. Big ones.

The Stranger groaned and pushed up onto one elbow. His ribs screamed in protest, and he spat a curse between clenched teeth.

“Not yet, you bastards,” he rasped.

The vultures didn’t budge, their beady eyes fixed on him as if to say, We can wait.

Slowly, agonizingly, he dragged himself upright. His vision swam before settling, and he wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers came away sticky and red.

Great.

He scanned the terrain again, slower this time. Uneven ground stretched to the horizon, where a faint line of trees shimmered in the heat. A coyote prowled along the ridge, nose to the dirt. It paused, sniffed the air, then slunk away with a flick of its tail.

The Stranger let out a shaky breath.

“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure he believed it.

He staggered to his feet, legs like lead. The world tilted dangerously, and he steadied himself against a boulder until the nausea passed. His hat was gone, and his boots felt twice as heavy, but he was alive.

For now.

The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, heat shimmering off the ground like a cruel mirage. But to the west—if his sense of direction hadn’t failed him—there were trees. And trees might mean water.

He started walking, each step sending a jolt of pain up his spine. But pain was better than sitting around waiting for the coyotes to come back.

As he walked, fragments of memory began to surface: shouting, gunfire, the metallic taste of blood. Faces—angry, desperate—flashed in his mind but slipped away before he could hold on to them.

What stuck was the feeling of betrayal.

He grimaced, shaking his head. There wasn’t time for that now.

After what felt like hours but was probably closer to thirty minutes, he saw it: the cabin.

It sat low against the trees, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos he’d left behind.

The Stranger hesitated at the edge of the clearing, instincts screaming at him to stay hidden. But thirst and exhaustion won out, and he stumbled forward.

Up close, the cabin was small, its weathered gray wood rough against his palm as he knocked. The sound echoed too loudly in the stillness.

Nothing.

He knocked again, leaning against the frame. His breath came in shallow gasps, his vision narrowing.

When the door finally opened, it wasn’t the welcome he’d hoped for.

A teen stood in the doorway, rifle in hand. His sharp eyes swept over the Stranger like he was sizing up an animal caught in a trap.

The Stranger opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He swayed, the world tilting violently.

“He’s alive,” the teen said, voice flat.

And then the Stranger hit the ground, everything fading to black.