A laugh slips out—thin, real. “That comparison died on impact.”
He smirks. “Still got the point across.”
I push to my feet, rolling my shoulders. The whole cabin feels less heavy.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He shakes his head. “You did this.”
“No,” I correct. “I’m doing this. Present tense.”
His eyes warm—pride, respect, something more.
Something warm and steady settles through me. He doesn’t have to explain. The wheel has been between us for days—turning, tugging, reshaping us. I know which words he’s asking for.
I inhale. Slow. Certain.
“Let the wheel turn.”
The words feel like stepping onto solid ground.
He exhales a quiet, reverent sound. “Yes.”
Outside, evening is settling. Voices drift from the dining hall—silverware clattering, distant laughter, a child insisting they can definitely carry four cups of juice at once. Sanctuary normal.
For a moment, the gravity of tomorrow (or next week, or whenever the bureaucracy decides to notice me again) presses against my ribs. But it doesn’t crush me.
Because I’m not stepping into the unknown alone.
I gather my notebook, slip it into my bag, and turn toward him.
“I think…” I say, choosing the words carefully, “I can be done working for today.”
His smile is small. Real. “Good.”
He reaches for my hand—not grabbing, not claiming, just settling warmth through my palm.
I take it.
We walk into the cooling evening air together, my body humming with fear and certainty in equal measure.
The wheel is turning. And for the first time, I am not bracing to be crushed beneath it. I am standing next to it.
Ready.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sophia
The day of the interview does not feel like a movie. There’s no dramatic storm, no ominous music, no symbolic bird crashing into a window. Just late summer in Missouri.
Ten days since filing the complaint. It feels like it’s all happening too fast, yet I want it all to be over with.
The cabin suddenly looks wrong for this—too small, too lived-in, the rumpled bed far too visible behind me if I sit at the desk. I can’t make a career-defining Zoom call with my pillow in the background. The conference room might not feel like mine, but at least it looks like a place where serious work happens.
Humidity presses against the windows of my cabin and slips inside. Someone laughs outside—sharp, bright, and utterlyindifferent to the fact that my career might tilt on its axis in a few hours. My alarm has gone off twice. I’m already dressed.
Black pants. Soft, slate-blue blouse. The blue cardigan I always wear when I need my body to feel like it has a portable wall.
