He looked panicked. “I wasn’t trying to steal it, I swear—”
“I didn’t say you were. But if you’re gonna stay, you’ll need to help run it.”
Jojo’s head snapped up. “Stay?”
I shrugged. “You’ve kept the place from falling apart. That’s more than any of my family ever did. You work, you stay. You don’t, you go. Fair?”
He stared at me, something like hope fighting with disbelief in his eyes. “I’ll work. Anything you need.”
I nodded. “Fine.”
He smiled then, a small, real thing that looked like it might crack if he stretched it any wider.
I finished the bread, then got up to check the locks again, more out of habit than suspicion. Jojo hovered, uncertain, then said, “I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
He set about it with military efficiency, every movement precise. I watched for a second, then retreated to the porch. The wind had picked up, the scent of woodsmoke and wild grass riding the air. I listened to the sounds of the house—water running, plates stacking, the quiet hum of someone finally exhaling.
This place was supposed to be my burden, a punishment for refusing to live on my father’s terms. But sitting out there, chewing the last bite of bread, I felt lighter than I had in months.
I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like, but for the first time, I wanted to find out.
* * * *
I woke the next morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of rain hammering the tin roof. It was still dark outside, but the watch glowed 5:42 a.m. Jojo was already up, moving quietly in the kitchen, pouring water from the kettle with the precision of a surgeon.
I stretched, winced at the ice pick in my knee, and let the aches of a new Montana day remind me that I was still alive. I padded into the kitchen in a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants—no sense in putting on a show for the kid. He noticed me, went still for a heartbeat, then offered a careful smile.
“Coffee?” he asked.
I nodded, and he poured a mug, set it on the table, then resumed slicing onions over a chipped enamel pot. The knife flashed silver in the lamplight, but his hands were steady, the work effortless.
“Did you sleep?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Some. I get up early. Less chance of… surprises.”
I grunted, took a sip, and burned my tongue.
Worth it.
The silence between us wasn’t awkward, just thick—two people still deciding if they were going to circle or charge. I watched him work for a minute, then said, “You always cook like you’re feeding a platoon?”
He blinked, then shrugged again. “I figure you’ll want a big breakfast before working.”
“You think I’m going to make you dig fence posts or something?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “You look like the type.”
I almost laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” I sat at the table, letting the warmth of the mug seep into my fingers. “You do all your own repairs, too?”
He nodded. “I patched the roof above your room last week. Hope it holds.”
I looked up, noticed that the ceiling in the hallway wasn’t water-stained like the rest of the house. I hadn’t even clocked it last night, but he was right—someone had gone over it with tar and shingles, new enough that it still stunk of petroleum in the wet air.
“You got an eye for details,” I said.
He beamed, just for a second, then caught himself and dialed it down. “My grandpa was a handyman. Taught me to do stuff when I was little.”
“Was that in Montana?” I asked.
