By the time the bell rang, Lily had vanished into the crowd of backpacks and lunchboxes, and I stood in the parking lot, staring at the truck like it was both a prison and a lifeboat.

The frost had melted into a thin sheen of ice, glinting gold in the late morning sun. I could feel my own heartbeat in my throat—long months of barely controlled panic made even ordinary moments feel sharp.

I climbed in, leaving the heater on low, the engine idling to keep the cab above freezing. My hands shook as I held the steering wheel, trying to steady them. Eight months. Eight months of pretending to be invisible. Eight months of watching Lily’s small, curious face adapt to hardship I hadn’t been ready to endure. And yet, in that same stretch, I realized something: I wasn’t broken. Not entirely. Not yet.

The phone buzzed again. Jennifer.