He hurt all over. He was pained, agonizingly so, and every movement was difficult. His muscles locked up when he moved and when he felt that overwhelming urge to cry, he had to bite the sack that made up his pillow so the shaking didn't cause too much more movement. Nightfall came with few more people trying to take their turn with him, but it was still a few too many. When his cell darkened and lanterns were lit between every cell wall, Andrew managed to raise his head and force his body to move. He curled up against a wall and turned his back to the cell door, hoping to drag out every minute he still had alive. He hadn't grown up with his birth family, hadn't learned of his ancestors, his gods, did he even have gods? Or did he have the one God the white people did? The ones his adoptive parents had? He sighed shakily, glancing up as a commotion reached his ears. Footfalls. Then a rattling of the door. He gasped, spinning around and immediately regretting such a movement as another bolt of pain made him cry out. But he didn't look like a man of the law.

He slapped a hand over his mouth to shut himself up---he was whimpering without realizing it. Andrew nodded curtly every few moments, committing the stranger's words to memory. Was he saving him? He looked familiar. A face on a wanted poster. A gunman, wanted dead or alive. Wasn't he feared by so many others? Andrew wasn't going to question this man. He didn't want to be killed like the others he'd no doubt killed. When the door was opened he didn't bother retrieving his shirt. He slipped out of the cell and crept backward, flinching when someone from a nearby cell yelled wordlessly at him.

He didn't bother saying anything---his throat was scratchy and dry. He turned and sprinted down the hall, hitting the opposite wall as he lost his balance and became dizzy. Avoid the sheriff's office... He did, turning away from that door and heading the other way, passing a water spigot and glancing around. No one was near. He collapsed in front of it and pumped the handle, cupping his hands under the falling water and swallowing as much as he could in just several moments' time. He had to get out. He had to get out and run... where? Up that hill where a black horse was? He sighed, looking for the staircase and finding it. He felt exhausted, tired. When he made it up, Andrew peered around a doorway and gasped when he saw a man with his throat slashed. The doing of this man that had helped him? He shuddered hard, closing his eyes as he passed and finding his way outside. It was cool. He could feel a breeze. Finally. And to his left was the hill in the distance.

For some reason he trusted the man to get his horse. He couldn't bear leaving White Tide. Nonetheless, he kept glancing over his shoulder, rubbing his bare shoulders as he walked.