Chapter 3

The cabin on Route 11 smelled of damp cedar, mouse droppings, and thirty years of quiet abandonment.

It was three in the morning when the truck's tires crunched over the overgrown gravel path. The property had belonged to my grandmother, sitting on twelve acres of untended apple trees at the base of the Blue Ridge foothills.

The roof over the back porch was sagging, and the front screen door shrieked on its rusted hinges when I pushed it open.

Sam was shivering, clutching his dinosaur pillow against his chest.

"Mom?" he whispered in the dark. "Where's my nightlight?"

"We're camping tonight, buddy," I said, wrapping him in three wool blankets on the old living room sofa. "Just like an adventure."

"It's cold," he murmured. "Is Dad coming?"

"Not tonight, Sam. Try to sleep."

I found the electric panel behind the pantry door. When I flipped the main breaker, two yellow bulbs buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the linoleum. The ancient baseboard heaters groaned, clicked, and died.

No heat.

I walked into the kitchen. The tap ran brown for five long minutes before turning clear and cold.

Sam began to cough--a dry, tight rattle from deep in his chest. The damp mountain air was already irritating his airways.

"I'm hungry, Mom," he called out from the couch.

"I know, baby. I'm making soup right now."

I unpacked the grocery bag I had grabbed on the way out of town and pulled out a can of chicken and wild rice soup.

I opened the utility drawer by the sink to find a can opener.

There was a rusted pair of scissors, a roll of electrical tape, three dried-out markers, and a handful of bent nails.

I searched the second drawer. Nothing. I searched the upper cabinets, pulling open empty cupboards covered in peeling shelf paper.

No can opener.

I took a butter knife and tried to wedge it under the metal rim. The blade slipped, slicing across my thumb. Blood welled up, dripping onto the floor.

I stood there in the cold kitchen, holding a bleeding thumb and a dented, unopened can of soup, and I broke down.

I slid to the floor, pulled my knees against my chest, and cried.

For fourteen years, I had known where every single item in a four-bedroom house was located. I knew which shelf held Sam's emergency inhalers, which closet held the spare linens, and how many ounces of vanilla extract remained in the bakery pantry.

And now, I was sitting on a dirty floor at three in the morning, unable to feed my son because I didn't even own a can opener.

A small sound broke through the room.

Sam was standing in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in his blanket, holding his wooden school ruler.

He didn't ask why I was crying. He walked over, sat down on the cold floor, and leaned against my shoulder.

"If I go to sleep, Mom," he asked in a quiet whisper, "will you still be here when I wake up?"

I pulled him close, pressing my face into his hair, feeling his chest rise and fall against mine.

"I will always be here, Sam," I told him. "Every morning. I promise."

At 6:30 AM, a truck engine idled in the driveway.

I grabbed my cast-iron skillet from the counter and opened the front door.

Standing on the porch was Helen Gable, wearing a faded chore coat and rubber boots, carrying an insulated thermos and a toolbox.

"Put the pan down, Ava," Helen said in her dry, steady voice. "I brought coffee, a hand-crank opener, and some dry split oak for that woodstove."

She walked into the kitchen, set the thermos down, took the can of soup from the counter, and pierced the lid with a clean snap.

She didn't ask about Luke. She didn't ask why I was there. She poured the soup into a pot, struck a match, and lit the small propane camp burner she had brought in her crate.

"Eat first," Helen said, glancing at the paper towel wrapped around my thumb. "Then we'll figure out this stove."