Faraday snorts out a quick laugh, shoving himself up to sit. He slouches a little, the heel of his palm digging into the sore muscle of his thigh, over that old battle scar. (It tends to act up in the morning, these days, or in the cold, or after too much riding; nowhere near as bad as those long stretches of weeks in Rose Creek, where even the mere thought of moving his leg was liable to make it scream at him in protest, thankfully.)

When he trusts his leg to hold his weight, he stands and stretches his arms overhead, moving over to the food and grabbing up a piece of bread. He doesn’t settle again, instead tentatively stretching out his bad leg. At Vasquez’s question, he frowns.

“Winner?” Faraday repeats around a mouthful of bread. “Winner for what?”

Apparently he didn’t take last night’s wager very seriously.