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Mom pulled a jug of sweet tea from the fridge and poured some in a frosted avocado-green glass I was pretty sure had come from my grandparents’ kitchen. “I don’t know, but I was hoping you’d maybe talk to her while you’re visiting. On your own. Not with Emmett there.”

I slumped in my chair theatrically and dropped forward, resting my head on the table. “Ugh.”

“I hate to ask, but she listens to you, Way. Would you mind?”

Yeah, I minded.

But I was a sucker for family, so I borrowed my dad’s truck and drove south to Bear Ridge.

Misty’s halfway house was a nicer one than the last. It was a two-story brick home on a quiet street with lace curtains at the windows and rocking chairs on the front porch. Lush pink and white flowers were planted around the circumference of an oak with branches so wide they intertwined with the neighbors’ tree.

The logger in me wanted to warn them to trim the branches, but I wasn’t here for health and safety reasons. Or maybe I was.

My sister met me on the porch with a reserved albeit friendly wave.

Misty was a tall woman with long, dark hair that tumbled over her narrow shoulders and skinny arms. She’d once been pretty with dazzling hazel eyes and a mischievous streak, but she was too thin, too gaunt, and too haunted now. The saddest part was that it was getting harder to remember how things used to be.

I took her cautious smile as a good sign. Misty was going to make it this time. She was determined.

I hoped.

“Look at you.” She appraised me with an up-and-down once-over, her voice barely a whisp.

“How’re you, sis?” I hugged her gently, careful not to squeeze too hard or grimace at the feel of skin and bones.

“Okay. Want some lemonade or⁠—”

“No, thanks.” I slipped my hands into my pockets and gazed at the house, then at her. “I’m in town for the weekend and wanted to see how you’re doing.”

She scoffed. “Mama made you come. It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here. C’mon. The gardens are nice. You might as well see what your good money is paying for.”

And here we go.

I knew better than to go on the defense, insist that I’d done what any brother would do for his sister or that I was only helping Mom and Dad out and that she could pay me back once she was on her own two feet.

I never expected a dime in return.

Maybe that made me a damn fool. Or maybe it was guilt money ’cause the truth was…I’d rather give money than hang around Clearwater with my fingers crossed.

I’d paid off my parents’ mortgage. I’d paid for my sister’s rehab and now her rent at the sober living facility. I paid for Emmett’s clothes, school supplies, and any extracurricular activity he was interested in trying. I wasn’t wealthy by any stretch, but I’d earned good money, invested wisely, and never spent beyond my means.

When even that hadn’t been enough, I’d found a better job in Wood Hollow. I should have resented that Misty’s shit show had brought so much fuckery into our lives, and yet…we had Emmett. And I had an excuse not to be here.

The autumn afternoon sun cast a golden glow across the lawn as we strolled under a canopy of low branches. Two women read on a blanket with a bowl of grapes between them, and an older couple sat on a bench, next to a kid with shaggy dark hair and terrible posture. In the distance, there was a group of people in a circle—singing, praying, reading? I wasn’t sure.

“It’s nice here,” I said absently.

She sniffled. “Yeah.”

“Misty?”

Soft sobbing and a dainty hiccup, then, “I think he hates me.”

“Who?”

“Em.”

I frowned. “Why would you say that? You know it’s not true.”