I lean back in my chair and stare out at the place I grew up. The place I left. The place that kept going without me, struggling in ways I never saw because no one wanted me to.
"So what now?" I ask.
Mae shifts, joints cracking quietly. "Now we figure it out. One day at a time."
"That's not a plan," I say.
"No," Mae agrees. "But it's what we've got."
I want to argue. Want to demand a strategy, a timeline, a clear path forward. But the truth is, I don't have those things either. I came back to help Mae with her leg. Temporary. Manageable. A week or two at most.
This is bigger than that.
This is a year of slow bleeding that I didn't know was happening. A neighbor circling like a vulture. A family legacy that's one bad season away from disappearing.
And I don't know if I'm the person who can fix it.
I don't even know if I'm staying long enough to try.
Mae stands and stretches, the movement slow and tired. "It's been a long day. We can talk more tomorrow."
I stand too, my body heavy with more than just physical exhaustion. "Yeah."
We move toward the door together, the night air cool and settled around us. Mae pauses with her hand on the screen door, looking back at me.
"I'm glad you're here, Hazel," she says quietly. "Even if it's just for a little while."
The words sit in my chest, warm and painful at the same time.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Mae heads inside, and I linger on the porch a moment longer. The ranch looks the same as it did this morning. Gates closed. Fences standing. Animals quiet in the dark.
Nothing has shifted on the surface.
But I feel it anyway—the difference, subtle and undeniable.
A year. That's what Mae has. Whatwehave.
One year to turn around five years of slow bleeding.
I turn and follow Mae inside, the screen door clicking softly shut behind me. The weight of it settles over my shoulders—not crushing, just there.Present. Real.
Tomorrow I'll wake up and muck stalls and check fences and do the work that needs doing.
Three weeks from now, I'll have to decide if that's enough.
But tonight, I just need to sit with what I learned.
Chapter nine
Hazel
Three days pass before I realize I'm counting them.
Not deliberately. Not in any way I can point to or name. It isn't the kind of counting I did when I was younger, when waiting felt sharp and restless and full of expectation. Back then, time dragged because I wanted something to arrive.
This is different. This is quieter—a low, steady awareness that settles in without asking permission. The kind that slips into my thoughts while I'm doing other things. Folding laundry. Washing mugs. Standing at the sink and staring out across the yard longer than necessary.
