It took weeks.
During that time, I still slept in the cave.
But things changed.
I used some of my grandfather’s cash carefully.
I bought a used sleeping bag.
A small propane stove.
Dog food.
Work gloves.
A tarp.
A flashlight.
Patch became mine.
Or I became his.
Hard to say.
I cleaned the cave.
I found the spring my grandfather mentioned.
It was clogged with leaves and debris.
I cleared it.
The water still had to be filtered.
But it ran.
I found the old shed foundation.
Only stones remained.
I began imagining a small cabin.
Nothing fancy.
One room.
Wood stove.
Bed.
Table.
I had spent eleven years being told exactly where to sleep.
The idea of building my own room felt almost unbelievable.
Then my family found out.
My mother came first.
She arrived in a silver SUV.
I was repairing the spring box when I heard tires on the old access road.
I looked up.
Elvira stepped out.
She was seventy-three.
Her hair had gone completely white.
For years, I had imagined our reunion.
None of my imagined versions looked like this.
She stared at me.
Then at Patch.
Then at the cave.
“So it’s true.”
No hello.
No hug.
“What is?”
“You found Dad’s land.”
I stood.
“How did you hear?”
“People talk.”
Of course.
Cedar Valley.
My mother looked around.
“He told me he sold this.”
“He didn’t.”
She crossed her arms.
“I know that now.”
“You sold our house.”
Her expression hardened.
“It was my house.”
“It was home.”
“You were gone.”
“I was in prison.”
“Exactly.”
The word hit like a slap.
I took a breath.
“Where is Lily?”
My mother looked away.
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“With me.”
“I want to see her.”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
My chest tightened.
“Did she say that?”
“Yes.”
“Can I hear it from her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t get to come out after eleven years and disrupt everything.”
Anger rose.
I forced it down.
“I wrote.”
“I know.”
“You returned the letters.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She needed to move on.”
“You decided that?”
“I raised her.”
“I am her mother.”
“You stopped being her mother the day you helped rob that pharmacy.”
I went completely still.
There are sentences you can survive only because you have already survived worse.
That was one.
I looked at her.
Then asked.
