Mrs. Whitaker shakes her head slowly.
“No.”
Her voice drops.
“It’s not.”
We walk out of the store in silence.
I glance back toward the burned hardware store.
At the boarded windows.
At the blackened roofline.
This wasn’t just a fire.
It was a foothold.
“They’re not done,” I say softly.
“No,” Saint agrees.
“They’re just getting started.”
I look at him.
Really look at him.
And for the first time, something inside me shifts.
Not fear.
Resolve.
“What do we do?” I ask.
Saint doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze drifts down the street.
Past the stores.
Past the houses.
Past the town he refuses to abandon.
When he finally speaks, his voice is steady.
“We stay.”
I tighten my grip on the baby carrier.
“We don’t run,” he continues. “We don’t panic.”
I nod slowly.
And in that moment something changes between us.
