I try not to look at it.
I fail.
Saint notices.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
His hand brushes my elbow.
“We’ll get through this.”
I nod.
But I don’t know whatthismeans anymore.
Inside the general store, Mrs. Whitaker is restockingshelves with the careful, deliberate energy of someone pretending everything is normal.
“How’s the baby?” she asks, leaning over the carrier.
“Growing,” I say. “Loudly.”
She smiles.
Then the smile fades.
“You heard about Miller’s, right?”
Saint stiffens slightly beside me.
“Heard what?” he asks.
Mrs. Whitaker hesitates.
“They can’t rebuild. Not yet. Some company filed an appeal. Everything’s frozen.”
“Frozen?” I ask.
“Insurance. Permits. Construction funds. All of it.”
My stomach drops.
“Why?”
She shrugs uneasily.
“Paperwork. Environmental review. Something like that.”
Saint’s jaw tightens.
“And who filed it?”
“Some company out of state,” she says. “Northstar, I think.”
I don’t know why the name makes the air feel colder.
But it does.
“That’s… not normal, is it?” I ask.
