And mine keep circling back to her, over and over again. A place my mind wants to rest, even when I won’t let it.
I push off the counter and clap my hands once. “Alright, storms and clouds. Who wants to help me make lunch?”
They cheer as if I just announced Disneyland.
And just like that, the noise shifts shape instead of disappearing.
Which, honestly? Feels about right.
I’m elbow deep in peanut butter when my phone starts vibrating on the counter.
I glance down and see Wyatt’s name.
My chest tightens on instinct before it loosens, because if Wyatt’s calling, it’s either bad news or the kind of news that requires actual sentences instead of frantic yelling.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel that is already a lost cause and pick up.
“Wyatt,” I say, “please tell me you’ve got either really good news or a tranquilizer dart for children.”
He exhales on the other end, and I swear I can hear the rain behind him.
“Good news,” he says. “No darts required.”
I sag against the counter. My bones just remembered they don’t actually have to hold me upright anymore. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“The wind shifted overnight,” he continues. “Rain stuck around. Fire crews are calling it non-threatening now. Containment’s holding.”
I slide down into the nearest chair, phone pressed to my ear, and let my head drop back against the wall. The cabin doesn’t feel quite so small anymore.
“Say that again,” I murmur, because I need to hear it twice.
“It’s safe to bring the kids back,” Wyatt repeats. “You can head back here.”
I close my eyes.
I don’t even care about the mess, or the snacks, or the way my nerves have been vibrating fast as a plucked string for days. I just let the relief wash through me, heavy and slow, settling into places I didn’t realize were still clenched.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Okay. That’s… that’s good. Really good.”
There’s a pause. Then, gentler, “How are they holding up?”
I glance toward the living area, where Eliza is now attempting to balance three cushions on her head while Caleb supervises with the seriousness of a foreman.
“They’re… adapting,” I say. “In ways future historians will never understand.”
Wyatt chuckles. “Sounds about right.”
“And Abilene?” I ask before I can stop myself.
There’s another pause, longer this time.
“She’s okay,” he says. “Shaken. But her bees made it. That helped.”
My chest eases a fraction more at that.
“Good,” I say. “I’m glad.”
I am. Genuinely. Even if I don’t know what to do with the rest of what that means.
