I lead her back inside, but I can feel Lupo's eyes on me until the door closes between us.
An hour later, I'm washing dishes at the kitchen sink when I see him through the window. He's in the barn, carrying tools out to the fence line, moving slowly but with purpose now. He sets everything down, then stands there for a moment, hands on his hips, looking at the rotted post.
Then he picks up the shovel and starts to dig.
I watch him work. Watch the way his body moves like he's done this a thousand times. Watch the way he stops periodically to test his ribs, to make sure he's not pushing too hard. Watch the concentration on his face as he digs out the old post, sets the new one, and packs dirt around it.
There's something almost meditative about the way he works. As if he's found something he's been missing without knowing he was looking for it.
Elena comes to stand beside me, pressing her face against the window.
"Lupo's working hard fixing things," she observes.
"Yes, he is."
"He's nice, Mama."
"Maybe."
"Do you think he'll stay?"
I look down at my daughter's hopeful face and realize something I hadn’t thought about. She's already attached to him, already seeing him as someone safe, someone good.
What happens when he remembers who he really is? When whatever violent life he came from catches up to him?
What happens to her then?
"I don't know, baby," I say quietly.
But as I watch him work in the afternoon sun, something in me hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will.
Chapter 9: Lupo
Ten days.
I've been here ten days, and I still don't know my name.
Lupo doesn't count. That's Elena's gift to me, not my memory. But I answer to it now, and it feels less wrong every day.
I've fallen into a routine. Wake with the sun, work on whatever needs fixing. I've replaced three fence posts, repaired the barn door, rehung two shutters. Eat the simple meals Isabella brings me. Work some more until my ribs protest or my head starts pounding. Then rest until evening.
And every night, after Elena goes to bed, I come to the house to shower.
It's become a ritual we don't talk about. Isabella appears at the barn door around eight, nods once, and I follow her inside. She points me toward the bathroom, hands me a towel if I don't already have one, then disappears into the kitchen or her room while I clean up.
We barely speak during these exchanges. But I'm aware of her every time, the way she moves, the sound of her breathing, the fact that she's just on the other side of the wall while I'm naked and scarred.
Tonight is no different. I've been working on the porch steps, two of them were rotting through, and I'm covered in sawdust and sweat when she appears.
"Elena's asleep," she says quietly.
I nod and follow her across the darkening yard. The house is warm inside, lit by a few lamps. It smells like the vegetable soup we had for dinner.
She hands me a towel. Our fingers brush, and I pull back too quickly. She notices but doesn't comment.
"Take your time," she says, then retreats to the kitchen.
I close the bathroom door and lean against it for a moment, trying to calm the tension that's been building in me.
