Not yet.
I turn and walk back toward the house, boots crunching over dry grass, throat tight with everything I can't say.
My room feels too small.
I sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at the black screen like it might offer answers.
For a long moment, I don't move. Just sit there with the weight of the afternoon pressing down on my shoulders.
Then I unlock the phone.
Open the banking app.
The numbers load slowly, as if the phone knows what I'm about to do and wants to give me time to reconsider.
Checking Account: $1,043.27
I stare at it.
One thousand forty-three dollars and twenty-seven cents.
That's what's left after five years in Denver. Five years of rent and student loans and trying to build a life that costs more than I make. I'm not broke. But I'm not comfortable either.
Entry fee: $800.
I could do it.
Right now. I could transfer the money. Register us. Tell Mae it's handled. Tell Eli we're going.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
But if I pay it, I'll have $243 left.
Two hundred forty-three dollars.
That's not enough to cover an emergency. Not enough if my car breaks down or I need a bus ticket home—back to Denver, Imean. Not enough if something goes wrong and I need to leave fast.
My chest tightens.
If I use this money, I'm not just paying an entry fee.
I'm betting everything I have that this works.
And if it doesn't—if we compete and nothing changes, if the boarders don't come back, if Mae sells to Cole anyway—I'll be here with nothing. No cushion. No safety net. Just a choice I can't undo.
I close my eyes.
Dad's voice echoes in my head, the way it used to when I was young and couldn't decide something:Sometimes the scariest choice is the right one, Hazelnut.
But what if it's not?
What if I bet everything and lose?
I open my eyes and look at the number again.
$1,043.27.
Entry fee: $800.
