There's a part of Raylan that knows how it would have turned out if he'd never made it out of Harlan; if he'd stayed down the mines until his nails were so black that he'd never get them clean. Until he breathed coal dust.

And it would look a lot like what steps out of the trees. It's him, but worn thinner, worn harder, shot through with steel not silver, gun in one hand, pick-axe in the other.

"Well, hello, darlin'," he says, eyes only for Andrea.