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Past midnight, Micah sits by the dying campfire, cleaning his revolvers (Pa always says he cleans them too much, but Micah doesn’t care; gun oil smells nice and cleaning his guns is his favorite thing to do), fascinated by the way the moonlight glints off the barrel. The fifteen-year-old yawns, his head throbbing with fatigue, but insomnia keeps him awake. With Amos asleep and Pa out drinking, Micah allows himself to rock back and forth, enjoying the relaxing motion without Pa here to smack him for being weird.
When he hears a sob from inside their tent, Micah freezes. He glances over his shoulder as his brother exits the tent; the twelve-year-old sniffles and meets his eyes. And eye contact hurts, but Micah forces it, used to being called a moron for not looking people in the eye (in the past, even Amos said he was weird for avoiding his gaze, and eight-year-old Micah got so upset he hit Amos and hid somewhere private to suck his thumb and cry). Hugging his chest, Amos looks around their small camp.
“He ain’t back,” Micah mutters, going back to cleaning his revolvers.
When Amos sits down beside him, Micah sighs (crying hurts his ears far more than gunfire ever could). But even though Amos thinks he’s weird and his little brother feels more mature than him, Micah wants to be a good big brother (although he doesn’t really know how). So, without speaking, Micah pulls one of his many cleaning rags from his pocket and passes it to Amos.
“Thank you.” The tear trails shimmering on his cheeks in the moonlight, Amos wipes his face.
When Amos shuffles closer, Micah raises his eyebrows but lets Amos lean against him.
“I had a nightmare,” Amos says. “About… when Mama…”
Micah swallows, understanding. He has nightmares about the death of Amos’ mother too. And about Micah’s Momma’s death. And the time Pa broke Micah’s arm for sucking his thumb. And…
After Momma died, Micah didn’t have anyone to comfort him, so he doesn’t know how to offer support after a nightmare. So, he stumbles on his words like a fool as he says, “C’mon, Amos. Stop… stop that cryin’.”
But Amos sobs, resting his head on Micah’s shoulder. “I can’t. I just… I don’t wanna sleep. Can I stay with you?”
Part of Micah wants to send Amos back to their tent, both because helping a crying person is so difficult and Pa always says sympathy makes you weak… But Micah feels like such a useless big brother, and Amos will grow up to resent him if he doesn’t at least try to keep his brother safe. So, he mutters, “Sure. I guess…”
“Thanks, Mike,” Amos says, the old nickname making his chest squeeze.
“Whatever, kid,” Micah says, but he smiles.
Their moment of peace will be shattered when Pa gets home, but for now… Micah lets Amos cry into his shoulder, glad his simple presence is enough to help his brother feel better.