Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Found”
“Live Again”
“Tattoos”
The hoop house isn’t half bad, if I’m honest.
It’s not flashy, but it holds. The frame is sturdy, the plastic’s mostly clear, and the beds are packed with leafy greens, tomatoes on the vine, and a few proud rows of carrots. There’s even a string of strawberries curling along the trellis, their fruit sun-kissed and fat from the last of summer’s warmth.
But it’s seasonal. This bounty won’t last.
I unzip the flap and step inside, holding it open for Briella. Breakfast over. She’s wearing the sundress again. The air is warmer with the sweet scent of plants and soil. She slips past me, scanning the beds like she’s cataloging every seed, every stem. The way she moves is thoughtful, her eyes eager, like hazel flowers blooming.
“This is…semi-impressive,” she murmurs, crouching near the tomatoes. “You built this?”
I nod. “Mostly Seth, but all of us pitched in. We do okay in the spring and summer, but once the cold sets in, it all dies. We can’t keep anything alive past the first frost.”
Her fingers brush the leaves gently like she’s reading them. “You’ve got the space. Solid structure. But yeah. There’s no insulation, no thermal mass. The plastic won’t cut it once the night temps drop.”
“You know a lot about this,” I say.
She glances over her shoulder. “I’ve had to.”
Love how proud she wears her curls, how they cascade to her waist. Sometimes, she pulls them into a ponytail or a long braid, but she’s comfortable with them.
I lean against a post, watching her in the dim light. “Did you grow up on a farm? Need crops to survive or something?”
“I wasn’t born with a green thumb or anything, but I learned some when I was young. And I liked going into the woods and researching which plants would harm and which would heal.” She stands, brushing her hands on her dress. “But I taught myself over the past few years until I had a thriving greenhouse.”
I blink. “Why?”
Briella shrugs. “I liked the idea of not needing anyone. Not a store, not a power line. I wanted to be untethered. My place isn’t like this. Not fully off the grid with solar panels, rain barrels, and wood stoves. But it’s still rural. The closest town is a half hour away. A few farmhouses in the area. But if I didn’t grow it, I didn’t eat it.”
Something shifts in my chest. I don’t know if it’s admiration or the realization that maybe she’s been surviving a hell of her own. But she’s done it all on her own. Even when we parted ways, we foster brothers always shared a bond.
Now, Briella is a part of that bond.
“I guess we’re not the only ones out here hiding from the world,” I say, half to myself, approaching her from behind, fingers straying to her hair.
“You’re not,” she replies, eyes on a dying patch of spinach. She stiffens at my touch, but doesn’t lean away. “People disappear for all kinds of reasons.”
She steps to the edge of the garden bed, running her fingers along the bent frame. “We need to winterize this. Add double poly and create an air gap for insulation. We’ll need to dig a trench and lay stones for passive heat. Hell, throw in some thermal barrels to trap the sun. With the right structure, we could grow year-round, even out here in the Redwoods.”
She said ‘we’. Fuck, three times.
I watch her work as she talks, marking out imaginary changes in the air. She’s already remapping the entire hoop house in her head. Turning it from something that works into something that endures.
I light a hand on her waist. “You saidwe, Briella,” I point out, appreciating how she turns to me. “You’d help with that?”
Her lips tug into a smile. “Someone should show you how to do it right.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “We’ll take it. We need it.”
Something about her softens at that. The usual tension in her shoulders eases, like maybe she’s not used to being needed. Or maybe she is, but not in a way that lets her stay whole.
I step closer. Not a move—just a nudge. Testing the current between us. She doesn’t step away.
