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Bill slumps awkwardly in his saddle, so drunk he feels sick, but he can’t stop pouring whiskey down his throat, trying to numb his embarrassment.
Eventually, Bill finds a place to stop, almost falling as he climbs down from Brown Jack. Bill lets out a long, shaky sigh, wrapping his arms around Brown Jack’s neck.
“Least… you don’t hate me, boy,” Bill mumbles, remembering being called a moron for acting like a freak yet again, memories of mockery and laughter swirling through his mind.
And, as he rests his forehead against Brown Jack’s mane, Bill has never felt so… lonely.