Maybe he could take that definition of hell if he believed in a god. Maybe. But the sweetness of this place isn't lost on him. The quiet moments that he can steal, the privacy. If he had died and gone to hell, Goodnight wouldn't be there beside him.

"Here, take these." He slides the axe into his belt, among his silver gilt sheathes, and begins piling logs into Vasquez's arms. Split the load, 50-50.

"We have coffee." It's not home, persay, but it's shelter from the wind and cold. And it has food and blankets. Feels like a boarding house, most days.
"Follow me."