He hated being dirty. The others might think that was just part of the role he played - fastidious as a cat and twice as curious - but there was more to it than that though Ezra didn't let himself think of it often. Except now, when he was tired and dirty and the thoughts kept creeping into his mind whether he wanted them to or not. He hated being dirty, hated it more than anything else he could imagine. Hunger was a familiar friend, courtesy of the days when Maude's latest scheme had led to the two of them leaving town much quicker than they'd anticipated, no time for a leisurely meal before taking flight. He'd known hunger in the war too, short rations made even shorter by no water to cook them with, or at least no water that wouldn't take its own revenge on those who had fought and been captured. Fear was familiar too, the adrenaline rush of the final hand, the headlong dash for the nearby horse. This time, when his horse had stumbled, losing its footing in the unexpected rush of water and mud, Ezra hadn't thought of anything but survival, arms flailing for something to hang onto as he was thrown from the saddle, a nearby branch proving unexpectedly strong. The mud stank and it was everywhere. It had insinuated itself into Ezra's boots, squelching with each step he'd taken as he followed his recalcitrant horse for half a mile before it had allowed itself to be coaxed within reach. Everything he wore was wet and muddy, chafing with each movement, making the ride back to town seem a million times extended. He hated being dirty. Even more, he hated the memories it brought back, memories of Point Lookout and things he'd always hoped time would allow him to forget. Ezra shook his head, willing those thoughts away.

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