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People change.

Or they don’t.

I don’t know which thought scares me more.

I spend the next hour driving through Everwood because going back to Redwood Run immediately feels like surrender.

I check the grocery store parking lot. The pharmacy. A coffee place with chalkboard signs and too many plants. I drive past the small park, the library, a laundromat, as if Maggie might be standing somewhere obvious, waiting for me to notice her.

She isn't.

I ask two clerks if they’ve seen her, showing them a photo from my phone. One recognizes her vaguely but hasn’t seen her recently. The other gives me the soft, guarded look people give when they don’t want to be involved.

By eleven thirty, my hope has thinned, becoming brittle.

I pull into a parking space outside a closed thrift store and check my phone.

No messages from Tom.

No messages from Maggie.

One message from my boss, Julian Mercer, sent with the tone of a man trying to be compassionate while also asking whether I can still review the client timeline by the end of day.

I stare at it for a long time.

Work. The old life, reaching out a hand. Clean. Predictable. Needing me in ways I understand.

I type back:

Laurel: I can review this afternoon.

Then, after a moment:

Laurel: I may need reduced availability for the next few days.

The dots appear almost immediately.

Of course they do. He's at his desk. Where people are supposed to be during work hours. Where I would be if Maggie hadn’t turned my life over like a table.

His reply is kind.

Too kind.

Julian: Take whatever time you need. Family comes first. Just keep me in the loop is all.

I almost drop the phone.

For me, family has always been something I kept in a locked drawer. Important, yes. But contained. Managed. Safer that way.

Now the drawer has been ripped open, and everything is on the floor.

I drive back toward Redwood Run.

The road narrows again, trees closing around the car. The further I get from Maggie’s town, the more I feel the pull of that old house, of Lucy waiting at school, of responsibilities I didn't volunteer for but somehow cannot refuse.

Maybe Tom is right and all I can do is keep Lucy comfortable. Make toast. Find shoes. Show up at school when she needs me.

It feels too small, yet it also feels impossibly large.