They head into the general store, first, but Faraday can feel Vasquez’s discomfort rolling from him like thick, oily waves. He casts the other man a concerned sidelong glance.

“If you keep looking so guilty,” he murmurs, “folks are gonna think you’re guilty.”

Faraday has survived this long on his confidence – and failing that, on his uncanny knack for misdirection. He knows when and how to draw or divert attention, and in this case, Vasquez might as well be shouting at the top of his lungs and waving his arms around with the way he’s going on.

“Quit lookin’ like you’re sorry for just breathin’, would you?”