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Briggs looks genuinely offended. “Selective harvesting isn’t theft.”

“It literally is.”

“You sound like somebody who’s never respected supply chain issues.”

Torin leans forward between the seats, almost fully awake at last. “You ate around the raisins like a raccoon.”

“Raisins ruin morale,” Briggs states.

“That should be embroidered onto a family crest somewhere,” Laurel mutters.

I glance sideways at her.

She’s smiling.

The sight settles in my chest with enough force to annoy me immediately.

Hope again.

That disruptive, uncontrollable thing that keeps slipping past my better judgment.

Around noon we stop near a river overlook outside Monroe because Briggs claims he’ll ‘die messily’ if confined to the SUV any longer. He climbs out stretching and groaning with relief.

The overlook sits above rushing water bordered by tall pines, the air colder here than back in Redwood Run. Laurel stands by the railing, arms folding tightly against the wind while she stares down toward the river below.

Torin joins her first.

I stay back near the SUV, pretending to reorganize supplies, while Briggs digs through the cooler for drinks.

Mostly I’m watching Laurel.

Again.

This has become a problem I no longer seem interested in solving.

“She seems lighter today,” Briggs says beside me.

“She slept for two hours last night,” I remind him.

“Still lighter though.”

He’s right.

Anxiety still lives in Laurel constantly, but everything underneath it has shifted noticeably since the Seattle lead arrived.

Purpose changes people. Even fragile purpose.

Briggs hands me a bottle of water before nodding toward the overlook. “You gonna keep staring from fifty feet away like a Victorian widower or actually talk to her?”

“I speak to her regularly.”

“You analyze her regularly.”

Unfortunately, that’s true.

Laurel laughs at something Torin says. Briggs goes quiet beside me. I stop pretending to reorganize the cooler.

By the time we get back on the road, the atmosphere inside the SUV has changed subtly.