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Jason folded his arms. “Mom’s saying you’re pre-Sloane Hudson.”

My grip tightened around the rag. “Do not call it that.”

“I didn’t. Mom did. And she’s right.”

I walked past him.

Jason followed. “You ate lunch today?”

I kept moving.

“That’s what I thought.” He stepped in front of me. “Go home.”

“There’s more to do.”

“There will always be more to do.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jason, I don’t have time for this. I have responsibilities.”

“So do the rest of us.”

The words stopped me.

Jason pointed toward the truck. “Byron has the rental calls. Julie is handling Grandma’s pharmacy pickup. I have the cabins. Trevor is helping Grandpa reorganize council records, which will probably lead to crime, but at least he’s being supervised.”

“I should check⁠—”

“No.”

Jason rarely interrupted me.

He did now.

“Sloane taught you to let us help,” he said. “Don’t punish everyone because you’re angry with her.”

I glared at him, but he didn’t back down. Eventually, I handed him the toolbox. “Call me if there’s a problem.”

“There won’t be a problem.” He walked away. I went home.

For three hours, I answered messages and reorganized a filing cabinet that had already been organized. Then I found another task.

The pattern continued for several days.

My brothers and cousin interfered constantly. Byron changed passwords before I asked. Jason inspected properties. Trevor handled deliveries and only lost one receipt. Even Caldwell began using his phone to tell me when he needed something rather than waiting for me to notice.

They had all become more independent while I’d learned to step back. Sloane had contributed to that change. I resented the evidence.

Every night, I lay down exhausted.

Every night, something exposed how far I had slipped.

An empty stomach. A headache from dehydration. A water bottle untouched since morning.

Sloane would have caught it. She would have handed me the flowered bottle Grandma made and refused to leave until I drank half of it. The thought hurt enough that I stopped using the bottle entirely.

On the fourth afternoon, I found Aaron Carpenter and the Kipner twins in the parking lot behind a farm supply store. They stood beside three shopping carts filled with hydrogen peroxide, dish soap, food coloring, plastic tubs, gloves, funnels, and enough protective eyewear for a laboratory class.

I parked beside them.