1
Lucinda
Water. That's the first sound that cuts through sleep’s fog. Not sirens, not engines, not the mechanical hum of machines that still haunts my dreams.
Just water, trickling over stones like the world's most expensive white noise machine.
I crack one eye open and golden light sucker-punches me through the van’s thin curtains.
Montana sunrise. The kind that promises second chances to girls who can't afford to believe in them.
My body screams from another night on the van's excuse for a bed, but it's the right kind of pain. The kind that says you're still breathing, Lucinda. Still free. I stretch until my joints crack, then shove the curtains aside.
Holy hell.
Mountains roll endlessly in every direction, their peaks still wearing winter's crown despite March trying to muscleits way toward spring. Pine trees crowd the slopes like dark sentinels, and the creek beside me runs crystal clear, catching morning light like scattered diamonds.
The air tastes like pine needles and possibility. The kind I’m not supposed to crave.
This is why I came to Montana. I was looking for places like this, where a girl can disappear into something bigger than herself, bigger than the bullshit people tell about her.
"Good morning, gorgeous," I murmur, my voice rough with sleep. It's become my ritual. Every morning, I say hello to whatever piece of earth I've landed on. It makes me feel less... alone.
I slide into my morning routine, the van life dance that would give my old Upper East Side classmates a collective aneurysm. Bed becomes couch. Sleeping bag disappears. Phone check for Matty's coded Craigslist posts. Nothing new. He's safe. The knot in my chest loosens just enough to breathe.
6:47 AM. Briarhaven, Montana. Population: 3,200. Perfect size for a ghost. Small enough that strangers get noticed, big enough that they don't care for long. I could blend here for a few days, maybe even a few weeks.
But it’s best if I don’t. Two months until twenty-one. Two months until I can tell uncle Richard exactly where he can shove his guardianship.
Two months of sleeping in parking lots and taking cash jobs that don't ask questions. Two months of proving I'mnot the "unstable, dangerous girl" a bought judge declared me to be.
I wasn't crazy. Just grieving.
These months on the road? The sanest I've felt since Mom died.
My stomach growls, reminding me that gas station beef jerky doesn't count as dinner.
But first, I need to get clean. One perk of sleeping rough: sometimes you find spots like this where you can wash without hunting down a planet fitness or a truck stop to shower.
I grab my toiletry bag and a change of clothes, then crack open the van's back doors. The mountain air hits me like a slap, sharp and clean and so cold it makes my eyes water. But underneath the bite, there's warmth waiting. Spring is fighting its way through winter, just like I'm fighting my way through this.
The creek is maybe thirty yards from where I parked, hidden by a stand of aspen trees. Perfect privacy. I've gotten good at scoping out these spots. Isolated enough for safety, accessible enough for a quick escape if needed.
I strip down to my underwear and wade in slowly, gasping as the cold hits my skin.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," I hiss through chattering teeth, using one of Mom's favorite expressions. She used to say it when the pain got bad or the nurses couldn’t get the IV in right. I can almost hear her voice now, wry andwarm despite everything:“Lucinda, only you would be half-frozen in a mountain creek and call it a good idea.”
The cold shocks, but it cleanses. I duck under completely, letting mountain water strip away road dust and restless dreams.
When I surface, I'm gasping and grinning like an idiot. This is freedom. Raw. Freezing.Mine.
I wash quickly, trying not to think about how my teeth are chattering so hard I might bite my tongue off.
As I rinse the soap from my hair, I glance down at the water. A face stares back from the still pool, and I barely recognize her.
Too thin, too sharp, eyes that never stop watching for trouble. Hair past my shoulders now, longer than it's been since high school.
I look like someone who's been running.
