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The work sitting in front of us now is different.

We're helping her build a life where she never has to run again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Laurel

The drive back to Redwood Run feels different.

Maggie sits beside me in the back seat, and for the first time in six weeks, she isn't missing. I keep waiting for that fact to settle into me, to bring relief, but the feeling never arrives the way I expect. Instead, it leaves me standing at the edge of whatever comes next. Finding her was one battle. Living with everything that follows is another.

She barely speaks as we make our way south. Every time a phone buzzes, her head snaps up. At gas stations, her gaze sweeps across the parking lot before she even steps out of the SUV. When strangers wander too close, tension creeps into her shoulders. I catch every reaction.

Lately, I catch everything.

Across from us, Briggs keeps sneaking glances her way and then pretending he wasn't looking in the first place. The act would've worked better if he didn't immediately look again every thirty seconds.

"You know she's not a rare bird, right?" Ashby asks from the front seat. "You can stop monitoring her migration patterns."

"I'm making sure she's okay."

"With binoculars?"

"I don't have binoculars."

Briggs mutters a curse while Torin smothers a laugh behind his sketchbook.

Ashby seems determined to keep the mood from sinking too far. Every time the conversation threatens to stall, he tosses out another topic and drags someone into it.

One minute he's complaining about the hotel mattress in Seattle and demanding compensation for "psychological spinal damage." The next he's arguing with the GPS because it routed us around construction three states ago and he's still holding a grudge. By the time we cross into Washington, he's launched into a passionate review of gas station coffee that sounds suspiciously like a wine tasting.

"This one has notes of burnt tires and regret," he announces after a sip.

Torin doesn't look up from his sketchbook. "You're drinking coffee from a pump dispenser. Every review ends with regret."

"That's where you're wrong. Regret is a finish, not a flavor."

Briggs mutters a curse under his breath.

Ashby beams. "Thank you for engaging with my art."

The SUV feels packed with unspoken thoughts anyway. Everyone's carrying their own version of worry, handling it as carefully as they can.

Somewhere along the way, Maggie falls asleep.

It's the deepest sleep I've ever seen her get.

Her head tips sideways and comes to rest against my shoulder.

I freeze.

The movement is automatic, instinctive. Like if I shift even an inch, I'll wake her.

The miles slide past, rain beats against the windshield, and memory slips in through the cracks.

This feels familiar.

Me aged eight, Maggie, and Ben crammed together in a tent while rain hammered the canvas overhead. Twelve years old, asleep before the car even made it out of the county, our heads knocking together every time Dad hit a pothole.