The journey back had been a silent one, the kind of silence that weighed heavy on the heart, pressing down like a storm about to break. Steward sat rigidly in his seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins, even though there was no need. He drove fast, but he was absent minded. He wasn't sure what it would mean to weep, it hadn't even passed his mind. The dirt road stretched ahead, but Steward could hardly see it. His mind was trapped in the past few hours, replaying the moment over and over again—the moment Julio had died in the most brutal way possible.