I end the stream, hands shaking, and immediately upload the edited walkthrough Dylan and I shot on the first day with new footage from last night.
Fairy lights flaring on, his voice off-camera explaining how he anchored the handrail so little kids could hold on and not be scared.
I add links to the patch’s ticket page and store, hit PUBLISH. Then I fold myself onto my childhood bed, face buried in the quilt, and finally sob.
I don’t know how long I stay like that. An hour. Two. Long enough for the sun to slip across the floor and for the old cat to come knead my hair and decide I’m not a threat.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings.
I scrub my face on my sleeve and jog down. When I open the door, Lanie stands on the stoop with a coffee she clearly stole from the patch and Tricia at her shoulder, hair in a messy bun, eyes bright.
“Don’t ask questions,” Lanie says, thrusting the coffee into my hand. “Just come with us.”
I open my mouth to protest, to apologize again, to offer to write five thousand more words in support of the patch.
But Tricia shakes her head, smiling. “We saw the livestream. And the forest video. Come on.”
“What happened?” I manage as I grab my jacket and follow them to the truck.
“The Internet happened,” Lanie says, sliding behind the wheel. “Orders are slamming the store.”
“People are buying gift cards like we’re the last pumpkin patch on earth,” Tricia says. A mom group in Anchorage is organizing a field trip caravan for Saturday.”
“And—” Lanie’s grin widens— “a Seattle foodie account just stitched your video and told their followers the only acceptable fall plan is cider at our place.”
My brain tries to process that. It fails. “You’re kidding.”
“Also,” Tricia adds, waggling her phone, “your stream is at 200k views and climbing. Meanwhile, the comments on the original article are a war zone, but in a good way.”
“My editor?—”
“Is probably drafting a statement,” Lanie says. “Let her. Today’s about us. And you.”
I sit back against the seat, the familiar road unspooling under us like ribbon. “Does Dylan…?”
Tricia’s smile softens. “He’s at the hayride..”
My heart thuds and stutters like it’s trying to change time signatures. “I don’t know what he thinks of me.”
“Then ask him,” Lanie says. “But maybe ask him after you see what you did.”
We crest the last hill and the farm opens below: cars lined down the lane, a queue at the ticket booth that snakes like a parade, kids in knit hats bouncing on their toes, hands shoved into pockets while they point at things and tug on sleeves.
The banner over the entrance flaps in a sharp breeze:FALL IN LOVE WITH THE PATCH.
I don’t remember that being there this morning.
“It was Dylan’s idea.” Tricia squeezes my arm. “I helped him paint it, and he hung it at lunch.”
Lanie brakes in the staff lot and I’m out of the truck before the engine stills. We weave through the crowd, past the kettle where Chase is ladling cider and barking jokes, past the office where Quinn is scanning tickets and saying a warm “thanks for coming” to every single person coming in.
The sound of a tractor floats from the far field, and my heart hitches.
We follow it to the hayride loop. The trailor clatters in, laughter spilling off the sides. Dylan cuts the engine, voice carrying as he gives his end-of-tour spiel—“—and if you liked the forest, thank Taegen for making us remember what we promised it could be.”
He glances up, maybe to check the line, maybe at some instinct I’ll always be grateful for, and he sees me.
Time does the weird stretch thing again—his face going still, then open, like a door he’s decided not to hold shut anymore. He hops down from the tractor in three long strides and his boots hit the dirt in front of me.
