Later, after Kinsley has gone back to her room and Wendy has changed into her own clothes, we sit together on the couch, the fire crackling in front of us. Bolt is sprawled at our feet, snoring softly, and Kinsley is curled up in the chair nearby, reading.
Wendy leans against my side, her head resting on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer.
"What now?" she asks quietly.
"Now we live," I say. "We figure it out as we go."
She smiles and laces her fingers through mine. "I can do that."
I look around the cabin, at the fire, at Kinsley, at the dog, at the woman beside me, and I realize something.
I didn't just rescue her. She rescued me too.
And for the first time in years, I'm not afraid of what comes next.
Epilogue – Wendy
Four Years Later
I'm elbow-deep in bread dough when I hear the door slam.
I glance toward the hallway and catch a glimpse of Kinsley disappearing into her room, her hair swinging behind her like a dark curtain. A moment later, her door closes with another sharp click.
Ezra looks up from the table where he's been sharpening his hunting knife, one eyebrow raised. "What was that about?"
"I asked her to help."
"And?"
"And she said she was busy."
"Busy doing what?"
"Reading, apparently." I press the heel of my hand into the dough, folding it over itself. "Which, to be fair, she probably is. But also, she's thirteen and everything is a tragedy right now."
Ezra sets the knife down and leans back in his chair, his expression somewhere between amused and bewildered. "When did that happen?"
"The tragedy phase?"
"All of it. One day she's showing you her rock collection, and the next she's slamming doors because I asked her to wash the dishes."
I laugh, dusting flour off my hands. "Welcome to teenagers."
"I don't like it."
He grunts, picking up the knife again, and I watch him drag the blade across the whetstone in slow strokes.
Bolt lifts his head from where he's sprawled near the stove, ears perked, then sighs and settles back down. He's older now, but still content to follow me from room to room and claim whatever warm spot he can find.
I turn back to the dough, kneading it with more force than necessary, and Ezra glances up at me.
"You're going to punch a hole through the counter," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You're annoyed."
I stop kneading and look at him. He's watching me with that steady, knowing gaze that still makes my stomach flip even after years of marriage.
