Rawley handled the bigger stuff—fence posts, rolls of wire—like they were pillows, stacking them with military precision by the barn.
I kept my head down, focused on the rhythm of the work. It helped, a little. Moving heavy things made the world shrink to just me, my muscles, and the task at hand.
But halfway through carrying a sack of chick starter, a wave of nausea hit so hard my knees buckled. I staggered, dropping the bag. The dusty sweet smell of feed turned sour in my nose, and I had to grab the truck bed to keep from going down.
Rawley was there in a second, hands bracketing my shoulders. “You okay?”
I nodded, sucking in a breath. “Just stood up too fast, I think.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You want to sit?”
“No,” I said, heat crawling up my face. “I’m fine. Promise.”
He watched me for a long beat, then jerked his chin toward the porch. “If you puke, aim away from the stairs. I just swept them.”
I laughed, weak, but the sound felt good. “Yes, sir.”
The nausea faded as fast as it came, leaving me shaky but upright. I finished unloading the feed, then leaned against the tailgate, trying to catch my breath.
Rawley came over and set a hand on my lower back. “You sure you’re good?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe just need food.”
He nodded, then pointed at the bundle of boards and wire mesh I’d barely noticed among the supplies. “You know what that is?”
I shook my head.
“Chicken coop kit,” he said. “Saw you looking at the catalog the other night, so I picked up the best one they had.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Gonna set it up by the garden, keep the predators out.”
I stared at the box, then at him. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. “You… did that for me?”
He frowned, confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
I bit my lip, feeling the stupid tears well up. “Nobody’s ever… you didn’t have to.”
He stepped closer, eyes softening. “You wanted chickens. You got chickens. That’s how it works.”
I tried to laugh, but it caught in my throat. “Thank you.”
Rawley brushed the hair from my face, his hand warm and rough. “You don’t have to thank me. Just keep those birds alive.”
I wiped my eyes, embarrassed. “I will.”
He grinned, then hoisted the box onto his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get this inside before the weather turns.”
We carried the kit to the mudroom, then unpacked the parts onto the kitchen floor. Rawley scanned the instructions, making low, unimpressed noises at the diagrams.
I grabbed my notebook and started sketching where I wanted the coop to go. The lines were still shaky, but I felt steadier with every stroke. Rawley watched, his mouth twitching at my concentration.
“You’re serious about this,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, surprising myself with the conviction.
He nodded, then grabbed a pencil and started making notes of his own—measurements, supply lists, ideas for predator-proofing. We worked side by side, the kitchen filling with the smell of sawdust and coffee.
For the first time all day, I didn’t think about Victor, or Melissa, or what the town thought of us. I just thought about thefuture. About chickens. About the coop, the garden, the rows of feed sacks lined up in the barn.
About belonging.
